


you're a dragon, be a dragon

by pandizzy



Series: daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female!Maegor Targaryen, Half-Sibling Incest, House Targaryen, Rule 63, Targaryen Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: Maegara Targaryen has been promised a crown and a husband, and nothing her father can say or do will keep her from both.
Relationships: Aenys I Targaryen/Maegor I Targaryen
Series: daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889584
Comments: 61
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this chapter half-written on my documents for about five months now and just couldn't finish it... until yesterday. Yesterday was a very interesting day. Or should I say night? Because this entire situation happened at around eleven pm. My friend Michael and I were talking and he said something, which I can't say here because it's a spoiler, that really inspired me to write the two remaining scenes! So thank you, Michael!

Maegara isn’t overly fond of horses. She might have been someday, in a younger age, or a different world, as a girl struggling against the constraints of royal life, but it all changed after the palfrey incident. Since then, she has kept herself away from the animals unless it was absolutely necessary.

Only a handful of people knew what truly happened to the horse and the boy. He was paid to keep quiet and sent to Claw Isle as an apprentice. Maegara doesn't know if he's still alive, but she fears his image as if he could return to Dragonstone someday and tell everyone about what she did. Mother didn’t talk about it too often, but she would mention it frequently, usually in the form of a threat, like some sort of leverage she could hold over her daughter.

Father doesn’t know because Mother promised not to tell him. It could all be left in the past if Maegara behaved, obeying her mother’s orders, and attending every lesson she has with Maester Orwyle and Septa Sylvia.

She can’t remember exactly what happened that day, or where she planned to go when she sneaked inside the stables. Her hands were sweating as she held a dagger stolen from the armory, maybe planning to hunt something in the flimsy woods for her mother, although her original idea was lost in her mind after five years.

She recalls that she had just returned from the capital, from Father’s celebration, and she was angry. Even as a child, Maegara was always angry. Maybe that rage fueled her actions, for she didn’t think when the palfrey kicked her, frightened by her walking behind it, its heavy hooves hitting her squarely in the chest.

Coughing and barely able to breathe, Maegara stood up, pulling the dagger from her pocket. Hot blood sprayed on her face as she stabbed the animal, killing it. When the boy came to its cries, she saw how skinny and malnourished he was, smelling like hay and excrement, and her mind was empty as she sliced at his face, leaving a cut so deep across his features that he almost died. Maester Orwyle, the only other person to know, treated his wounds personally, and Maegara was forced to help him with the bandages and ointments.

“You are out of control,” her mother said, “This behavior is not becoming of a princess and future Queen. You are my daughter and so you must be perfect, or else all our plans will be for nothing. You will lose everything your father and I have fought for, everything we  _ conquered. _ Do you want that?”

She didn’t want that and after that day everything Maegara did was under Mother’s supervision, the shadow of the palfrey incident hanging above them.

For her entire life, all Maegara wanted was to make her mother forget what happened on that fateful day, to make her proud enough that their past wouldn’t matter, but Visenya Targaryen would never forget. She realizes that now. Mother can’t forget, and neither should Maegara.

She sits in the Great Hall, staring at her books and writing, the quill held tight by her hand as she writes. Maester Orwyle is behind her, watching carefully as she finishes her exercises. She tells herself not to be bothered by his ragged breathing, simply writing extensively about the Five Ghiscari Wars.

_ Aegar Selzys, the most powerful man in the Freehold at the time, met with Grazdan zo Azkeq, the Octarch of the Empire, for the final time in the final battle of the Fifth War. Lord Freeholder Selzys offered terms of surrender to Grazdan, claiming that both empires had lost too much, and the Valyrians would ensure nothing would ever bother the Ghiscari if they bent the knee. Grazdan zo Azkeq replied “The Harpy ruled an empire when your ancestors were still fucking sheep, and we are her sons. No Ghiscari will ever bend, and we will fight till the last man to prove it.” _

_ “Valar morghulis,” Lord Aegar said. _

_ “Valar doheris,” Grazdan responded, “I look forward to seeing your kin serving me in the morrow.” _

Maester Orwyle clicks his tongue, bringing her attention to him, “Your retention of history is impressive, Princess, but you need to pay more attention to your High Valyrian. It is Valar do-h-a-eris, not doheris.” He shakes his head, “And you may wish to use less crass words in your next work, Your Grace. Such vocabulary is not appropriate for young girls.”

Maegara ignores his last statement, her cheeks burning as she crosses her misspelled word, thin black inky lines covering her mistake.

_ “Valar doh _ _ eris _ _ aeris,” Grazdan responded, “I look forward to seeing your kin serving me in the morrow.” _

_ Tired of all the fighting, and perhaps angered by the words of his foe, Aegar Selzys gave the order for his army to attack, despite still being in parley with the Octarch. Lord Selzys’ bodyguards killed Grazdan’s attendants before they could respond, but failed to even touch Grazdan, as it turned out that Aegar himself ordered for him to be left alone. In the camps near Old Ghis, a hundred Valyrian dragons took flight, burning the Ghiscari army where they stood. In less than an hour, the proud lockstep legions of the Harpy were no more. _

_ Afterward, the Valyrians tore down the capital’s brick walls, its streets and buildings were turned to ash and cinder by dragonflame, and its fields were sown with salt, sulfur, and skulls. Like many others, Grazdan zo Azkeq was brought to Valyria in chains, where he would serve for the rest of his life as a slave for Aegar Selzys and his family. _

Maegara’s ancestors were in that field. The Targaryens weren’t the most powerful House amongst the dragonlords, but they were still riders. She couldn’t help but imagine a young woman a little older than her, silver hair flying in the wind as she took flight, holding tightly on her dragon. Maybe it was her first battle, maybe she was a hardened survivor, for it didn’t matter. Once she returned home to Valyria, to her brother-husband and her family, she brought forth a line from her womb so strong that they were the only of the dragonlords to survive the Doom.

Mother wanted her to do the same as the young girl, but Mother wouldn’t be very pleased with her lack of proficiency in High Valyrian. During the entirety of the century of blood, Targaryens spoke only their forefathers’ language, refusing to accept that the Doom truly happened, until her grandfather was born.

Mindful of their new reality, he called a maester from the Citadel to attend to him and his family, as well as to teach his four children the Common Tongue of Westeros. Unlike what happened with Maegara and Aenys, however, Lord Aerion and Lady Valaena continued to speak with their children in their mother language, guaranteeing the fluency in both dialects for all of the Conquerors and Uncle Orys.

Perhaps, if Mother had spoken to her in High Valyrian since birth, she wouldn’t have such difficulties. Perhaps if the Doom never happened, she wouldn’t have to speak the Common Tongue at all, and her thoughts would be filled with the language of the dragons.

“Well done,” Maester Orwyle says as she hands him the piece of parchment, “I must say you are a very good student, Princess.”

Maegara doesn’t let his compliment affect her. He did it quite often and more frequently than one would think necessary. Maybe he thought she needed positive critiques, maybe he just thought her work was truly remarkable. She would never know for sure.

“My High Valyrian needs polishing,” she answers, turning to him, “Mother will not be pleased with your reports.”

Maester Orwyle shakes his head, “You don’t need to worry about your mother, Princess. She only wants what’s best for you.”

“But you said it yourself that High Valyrian is the language of diplomacy,” she insists, cheeks flushing red.

“I did,” Maester Orwyle says. He returns her parchment to the table, settling it in front of her, and leans back, hiding his hands, “Do take care in reading about the life of the Valyrians, Princess. During their long history, many would rewrite their books to empower a distant ancestor, or to deny the feats of enemies. The Citadel spends many hours every day trying to sort out what is true and what is invented. For example, if you happen to read Ghiscari records, it will say that Grazdan zo Azkeq couldn’t speak High Valyrian, and Aegar Selzys refused to learn Old Ghis, so how could they speak without a translator between them? Or how could Grazdan know that the traditional answer for Valar Morghulis was Valar Dohaeris?” He shrugs, “Many have attempted to change history for their own entertainment, and many more will try in the future. It is for those in control of the knowledge to be able to see the differences.”

Maegara turns away, so he won’t see her rolling her eyes.

“I won’t be a maester,” she says, “I don’t need to know the difference between what my ancestors did and what they invented.”

Maester Orwyle clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “Maybe not now, but you never know what will happen tomorrow.”

Maegara presses her lips together, angry at his words. She looks back at her parchment, her written words, and scribbled letters. Her mother’s handwriting was flawless, carefully cultivated over the years, while hers was childish and messy.

_ Out of control,  _ she thinks, fisting her hand so tight that she could feel her nails entering the soft flesh of her palm.

“I need to polish my High Valyrian,” she murmurs. Maegara wills herself to relax, forcing her fingers to open, and seeing the half-moon imprints the nails left on her palm, “We must start soon if I wish to be better by the time Mother comes back.”

“Maegara,” Maester Orwyle starts and she tries not to bristle at the sound of her first name. He sounds so gentle, but somehow tired at the same time, and she can’t believe what is happening around her, “There is nothing to worry about. You are still a child. I’m sure nothing bad will happen if you misspell a few words.”

“My mother won’t be pleased if I have difficulties in her own tongue,” Maegara insists, “She has high hopes for me.”

Maester Orwyle sighs and Maegara thinks that if he were with anyone else, he would have rolled his eyes, “Yes, I know.” He shakes his head, “I know how much your mother’s approval means to you, but I must insist that you don’t overexert yourself over a simple matter such as spelling. There are other subjects in your studies that we still need to see before we can even think about retouching the languages.”

Maegara opens her mouth to contest him, or maybe to insist that they do it her way, and soon, but the door to the Great Hall opens and the words die in her mouth. Aegon the Conqueror and Prince Aenys strut in, side by side, not unlike every other time she has seen them in the corridors of Dragonstone. Father is wearing a black doublet and black pants, while Aenys seems to have chosen a silk tunic of sky blue and light beige trousers that hang low on his waist. One looks like a King, the other like a fool.

She averts her eyes, cheeks burning, and she hopes that they haven’t listened to her arguing with Maester Orwyle, for Father and Aenys  _ both  _ knowing her difficulties with languages would be a terrible shame.

Father must have noticed something, however, because he says:

“Is something wrong?” He looks from her to Maester Orwyle, frowning slightly. Maegara can’t help but think that Mother would immediately know what was wrong, that she knew her daughter and the old maester so well that she could read their expressions perfectly.

Maester Orwyle, who knows Maegara as well as Visenya, shakes his head, “No, Your Grace. I am merely overseeing the Princess’s studies of Valyrian history.”

Father’s eyes light up, “Really?” he says. He reaches forward with a hand, not even saying anything, and Maester Orwyle hands over the piece of parchment that was in front of Maegara. She bites her inner cheek. Not afraid of his reaction to her mistakes in High Valyrian, but rather… nervous.

But Father doesn’t say anything. He only raises his brow, shocked, and his eyes glow like embers. He isn’t just shocked, she notices, but also amazed. Surprised, but somehow, in a good way. He looks at the table, and she sees in his eyes how he notices the lack of books and parchments that she could copy in her exercises. “Did you write this from memory?”

He is looking at her and Maegara realizes that she is supposed to answer, but the words don’t come to her as easily as they once did. She opens her mouth, but before her silence becomes unbearable and awkward, Maester Orwyle steps forward, placing a kind hand on her shoulder.

“The Princess is very good at recalling things, and has a proficiency to history that I have never seen before,” he says, saving her, and she has never been more grateful to him before, “The King has the right to feel proud about his daughter.”

Aegon the Conqueror hasn’t stopped looking at Maegara. There is something in his eyes that she can’t recognize, a sort of failure to recognize, as if he is seeing her for the first time ever. Maegara looks back at him, setting her jaw, and sees her father’s mouth open slightly.

He didn’t know about how easy history came to her. He didn’t know because he didn’t care to learn about her, the child of the wife he didn’t choose, and that hurts more than any lost crown in the world.

He returns the piece of parchment to Maester Orwyle, who sets it in front of Maegara once again. “I  _ am _ proud of her,” Father says, and his voice sounds hesitant.

Maegara knows what she must say, and the “Thank you, father,” leaves her lips in a whisper.

Her eyes meet Aenys’, who cowers slightly beside their King. His hair looks smooth from here, silky ringlets falling on his shoulders, and she sees that he has started to let a mustache grow, alongside a gentle beard covering his jawline in silver wisps. For the first time, Maegara notices that her half-brother is handsome like a song, with almond eyes and full lips that match her own, but when he notices her staring, his cheeks flush red with embarrassment.

Her father, too, notices her gaze on him and looks between them, frowning slightly. Maegara can feel Maester Orwyle tensing behind her, and she wonders if Father told him about her mother’s plans to wed Aenys and her, or if he already knew.

Most likely. Mother tells him everything.

Maegara averts her eyes from Aenys’ and she turns to Maester Orwyle, her hair sliding behind her back as her neck moves. She is wearing it down today, without anything to hold it in place, not even a simple braid, and somehow, it doesn’t award her the freedom she thought it would.

Maester Orwyle looks at her as well, and she sees how he hesitates in front of her father, the questions swimming behind his milky eyes. Should they continue the lesson, ignoring the King’s presence? Or will His Grace wish to spend time with his daughter? Father comes to Dragonstone so rarely that it’s impossible to work their schedules around him.

The wait is too much for her and she speaks, wishing to relieve the tension from the Great Hall, “When can we practice my High Valyrian more?” She blinks, innocent, “I want Mother to see how much I have improved when she comes back.”

Maester Orwyle hesitates, looking to her father once more, and opens his mouth to speak, taking his hand away from her, “Princess, we hardly have any time to retouch your languages before your mother returns. I still wish to introduce you to arithmetics, and the managing of a household. I’m sorry, but I don’t think we will be able to do it.”

Maegara bites her inner cheek, trying not to scream out. She bites so hard that she tastes something metallic on her tongue, and her cheeks flush from embarrassment. She wishes she never spoke about High Valyrian at all, she wishes she had asked for another type of history, maybe dornish history, or even the tale of how Aenar the Exile crossed the seas to Dragonstone. She wishes and she wishes.

Another hand touches her shoulder, this one larger and covered in rough calluses. Maegara looks up, cheeks burning and rebel tears coming to her eyes, and sees her father’s face staring at her with a soft smile on his thin lips.

“High Valyrian is my mother tongue,” Father says, “I’d be happy to help you with any difficulties you might have with it.”

She has a sudden impulse to say that she isn’t having any difficulties and that she doesn’t need him, _ thank you very much,  _ and this almost makes her open her mouth _.  _ Before she can, however, Maegara bites her tongue and takes a deep breath, willing herself to have patience with the men in her life.

“I’m sure you are very busy ruling the six kingdoms, father,” she answers, smiling sweetly, “I do not wish to bother you with my studies.”

“It won’t bother me,” he murmurs, “I can see how much this matters to you and I only wish to help my only daughter.” He smiles what he probably thinks is a friendly grin, but it's too strained and tight on his face. It reminds her of Mother and how she wishes Mother were there instead of Father and Aenys, “I taught your brother and I can assure you: I shall have no difficulties with you.”

Maegara looks at her half-brother again. Aenys is so quiet. She doesn’t think she has heard him speak more than three sentences to her, or in her presence. He’s so shy and nervous. She doesn’t like it. Another girl might find it endearing and pledge herself to bring him out of his shell, but she can’t find it in herself to do so. His anxiety annoys her, his introspective manners angers her.

_ Why must you be the heir?,  _ she wants to ask him,  _ You are weak. Fragile. You are nothing but the shadow of a snake, and yet you dare to call yourself of the dragon’s seed. _

His heirs would be as weak as him if he married anyone else, but he will be hers. He will put his children inside of her, and her womb will make them strong. It has to, or else it will be the end of the Targaryens. The last candle of Old Valyria snuffled out with the vows of marriage.

“It seems to me that my brother must speak High Valyrian fluently,” she murmurs, biting out the words. They taste bitter in her mouth, but she keeps smiling, hoping to convey a sweet and loving persona, “My only wish is to please my family, and so I’d be happy if my lord father could attend to my studies, as the Queen has done.”

The King’s eyes widen just a fraction, “Your mother attends to your studies?”

Maegara nods, “Oh yes. Mother is so worried about my education. She is always overseeing my exercises.”

Father doesn’t say anything and Maegara looks at Aenys again. Her brother is biting his lower lip nervously and she almost rolls her eyes. He’s so shy. She wishes he would just talk to her. They are to be wed, are they not? Will they remain in this awkward dance until they are old and gray? How can they even make heirs if he will not talk to her at all? She wishes she could go to him and shake him until he spouts out a word or two.

_ To protect the King is a Queen’s duty, as well as a sister’s,  _ her mother once told her, and Maegara is suddenly reminded of how her mother created the Kingsguard out of love for her brother. She doesn’t think she could ever do something like that for Aenys and wondered suddenly if it would be different had they grown up together, if they would be closer like true siblings or fallen in love over the years.

She doesn’t think so. 

Without any talk, and only stares, the silence becomes awkward enough for her. Maegara sighs, and turns to Maester Orwyle, blinking her eyes as innocently as she can muster. “How can I tell the lies from the truth if the old valyrians so loved molding history to their own selfish desires?”

Maester Orwyle visibly relaxes and smiles, “Well, my Princess, it’s actually not so difficult. If you read your books with a careful eye, you’ll see that important characters in parts of history that don’t make sense are usually members of families that were in power during the time the records were written. That means the story has been changed, but to confirm it, maesters will compare it with other records, usually foreign. If the players don’t match, then it has been tempered.”

“I see,” she says, turning back to her parchment. When she looks back up, she sees that Father and Aenys have left. Maegara tries not to feel disappointed by it.

* * *

She is three and ten, barely a woman. Although her mother has seen fit to award her with the valyrian steel sword called Dark Sister, there are still many days to live before her father sees her as Mother does. She is tall for her age and twice as large as Aenys, but she has yet to grow into her womanly curves, and her monthly courses arrived for the first time barely a year before. 

Despite being there for nearly a fortnight, Father refers to her as ‘child’ more often than her own name, and her half-brother never calls her anything other than ‘sister’, as if that will make them be as close as the damned andals. She’d much rather if he didn’t call her anything at all.

He annoys her tremendously, with his nervousness and shyness that she doesn’t know where it came from. Before Mother left, she had taught Maegara everything she knew about Aenys, so she could charm him. The man in Mother’s stories was tall and handsome, who liked to ride and sing, who had a hundred friends and companions and was not indifferent to the girls around him. Mother never lied and yet none of these reports match the boy she sees every day now. Aenys seems shy and nervous. He wears rings on every finger and earrings. If he rides, she doesn’t know, despite looking at the sky every day in search of Quicksilver and her half-brother. At first, she had expected the task to charm him to be an easy mark, with him making the first move and she stringing him along until Father deemed her old enough to marry, but Aenys never  _ speaks _ . 

Maegara thought he would ask her to go for a ride or to have a private meal with him. To do something.  _ Anything.  _ But no. He barely speaks. He greets her every time they meet by chance in the corridors or the courtyard, kissing her hand and saying something like, ‘dear sister’, before quickly scurrying away. She doesn’t know where he hides and her days are far too busy to follow him around the castle.

She suddenly wonders if he wanted to charm her and Father said no. Mayhaps, he thought they should have little contact with each other before the wedding, to be certain they’d arrive in the sept as two maidens. Somehow, she doesn’t think Father, who had married her aunt Rhaenys in a secret ceremony two moons after his wedding to Mother, would do that.

No one has broached the subject of her marrying Aenys yet, and she doesn’t know if she’s the one expected to mention it. She hopes not. Her mind has barely been accustomed to the idea of sharing a bed with her weak older brother, and if she has to talk to  _ him  _ about it, then she will surely change her mind and join the Silent Sisters.

Mother would know what to do. She would have talked to Father already, set a date, and started planning the ceremony. If Mother were there, Maegara wouldn’t be in this stupid dance with Father and the crown prince. Everything would be different if the Queen were there.

She misses Mother in a way she never had before. Mother should be there to help her deal with Father and Aenys. Dragonstone is  _ her  _ castle, but the King sent her away because he couldn’t deal with her. Because he never loved her.

And because of that, she hates him. It’s a strange idea. To hate one’s father surely goes against the teachings of the gods, but Maegara does. She hates her father for sending her mother away. She hates her brother for being her future husband. She hates the gods for making her a girl. She hates Septa Sylvia and she would hate Maester Orwyle too if he were not her only ally.

But she mustn’t let that hate show. She must be perfect, in every single way, or else all of her mother’s planning will be for naught.

As her maids dress her for dinner with Father, Maegara tells herself to remain calm and pleasant. She will have to smile and laugh. To charm her brother and Father and convince them that she is the perfect option for a bride, the perfect future Queen.

They brush her hair until it shines like beaten silver, bounding it up in a large bun that they cover with a dark purple hair net, pearls sewn into the fabric. She wears a lilac dress, a color too soft for her tastes, with long sleeves and a flowy skirt, covered in white lace. She feels like a little girl, but she knows she is dressed as a perfect princess, prim and proper. She wishes to convey the image of humble and obedient, bowing before her father’s authority.

She tries not to blink for a few seconds, even stretching far into a minute, just to try and gain some shine in her eyes. Maegara wonders what they’ll think of her, wide-eyed and pretty, in comparison to the image of her the first time they met when she dressed just like Mother. 

Most likely, they’ll think she was just nervous, hiding behind the character of a strong young woman before revealing her true self. They’ll think she’s finally putting down her defenses, not knowing that she’s only making them stronger.

She wears a pearl necklace and earrings, with silver bracelets on her wrists. Maegara bites her lower lip and pulls her cheeks, trying to bring some color into them. As she looks at her in the looking glass, Maegara tries to smile, to appear cheerful and happy.

The smile looks fake on her face, tight and weird, but perhaps Father and Aenys will not notice. They don’t know her, after all. She is a stranger to them, even a moon’s turn after their arrival.

She sighs and walks out, leading herself to her father’s solar, where they will have supper. She is followed by one of her mother’s dragonseed guards, holding tightly to his steel sword. With the King in Dragonstone, the Kingsguard has come with him, and a white cloak escorts Maegara as well, although she didn’t bother to learn his name.

Lord Commander Corlys and another knight stand guard over the door, and her cousin smiles at her, bowing his head. “Princess,” he says, “Your father and brother are waiting for you inside.”

She nods, smiling, and walks in. When she enters, she sees a long wooden table, with her father sitting at the head. Aenys is by his side, and he turns his head in surprise to her, as if he didn’t know she was coming. Her brother wears a lovely doublet of green silk, embroidered with golden threads, while her father remains in his black clothes. Father smiles when he sees her and she curtsies.

“Father,” she murmurs, standing up and walking to him. A servant pulls the chair on Father’s other side and she sits, settling her hands on her lap, “Brother. How good to see you both.”

“Child,” he says and she flushes in anger. Why can’t he say her name?, “You look lovely, darling. Purple suits you.”

She smiles and bows her head slightly as a servant comes to fill her cup with wine. Maegara looks at her brother, who is still staring at her, and Aenys smiles, softly. His curls have been brushed and perfumed so strongly that she can smell them from her seat; lavender and a hint of roses. He is wearing golden rings on each finger, adorned with sapphires, emeralds, rubies, and the like.

“Thank you, father,” she says, turning to King Aegon briefly, “I was quite pleased with your invitation and I must admit I was worried about how late this dinner would be. I know you spend most of your day with the smallcouncil.”

Father smiles, “I always make time for my family.”

“It’s true,” her brother adds, “In King’s Landing, we have dinner together at least once a week.”

“Perfect,” Maegara murmurs, feeling her hands itching with the need to break something. In order to have something to do, she takes her cup of wine and sips it. Arbor gold, she knows without even looking at it. Her mother prefers Essossi vineyards, but, over the years, she has allowed a barrel or two of Westerosi drinks to enter her castle. After her twelfth nameday, Maegara was permitted to have one cup for dinner, although she doesn’t know if Father is aware of this rule.

The servants bring the first course, a thick pumpkin soup that goes hotly down her throat as she eats. Her brother and father do so in silence, with only the clinking of the silverware filling the space between them. Maegara looks at Aenys from time to time, analyzing him with practiced eyes.

He is handsome. That much she can give him and there is a charming air about him, enough to make any other lady swoon in sight of his lilac eyes. She wonders if he will shame her with mistresses and bastards, if he will try to bring whores to her court, or force her children to play with his whelp. For his sake, she hopes not. Maegara knows she would kill him if he did that, notwithstanding the stain of kinslaying.

She wonders when they will marry. Mother said after her fourteenth nameday, but there are only nine moons to that, and royal weddings are grand affairs that take time to plan. Everything must be perfect and yet no one speaks about it. It’s as if they don’t even expect the match to happen, and hope her mother will relent and allow Aenys to marry Alyssa Velaryon. 

Tired of all this dancing around, Maegara sighs and turns to the King, “Father, may I ask you a question?”

He hesitates, not expecting her words, before nodding.

“Yes, of course.”

“What are your plans for Dragonstone?” she asks, bringing a spoon to her lips. When she swallows the soup, she continues talking, “My mother will die someday, and I can’t very well hold it on my own.” Maegara looks at her brother, who is fiddling with his sleeve, as if he’s uncomfortable in his own skin, “I was merely wondering if Aenys and I will live here after we wed, or if you’ll want your heir to be near you.”

The reactions to her words are almost instantaneous. Father chokes on his wine, coughing visibly, and Aenys pales, spilling soup on his clothes. Maegara lets go of her spoon, setting her hands on the sides of her plate, and waits for them to recompose themselves. It takes a minute, with Aenys dabbing on his doublet until there is only an orange stain left, and Father’s face returning to its usual color.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, feigning confusion, “Did I say something wrong?”

Father shakes his head, “No, my dear, I was merely… surprised by your words.”

Maegara frowns, “Why?” A servant comes and takes her plate of soup away, leaving behind a dish of boar and boiled vegetables.

“You are as forward as your mother,” he murmurs, “But I understand.” He leans forward, placing a hand over her own, “Don’t worry about it, my love. You are young and there is still time for you to marry and worry about your life afterward.”

Maegara presses her lips together. That was not the answer she’d been hoping for. She wanted him to say that her marriage date had been set, that she and Aenys would live here, far from Alyssa Velaryon and other women who could steal her crown away. She turns to her half-brother, Aenys, and sees that he can’t meet her eye. He averts his gaze, fiddling with his stained slave.

_ Coward, _ she thinks, unkindly.

“I don’t understand,” she says, “Is it not better if we plan this ahead, so when the wedding happens we can be more prepared?”

“Maybe so,” her father answers, cutting into his boar, “But plans can change. Weddings can be canceled, new alliances can be made.”

Maegara feels her heart hammering inside her chest, and her mouth goes dry. There is a knot in her stomach and she tries to sip her wine to relax her nerves but finds that her throat is so constricted, that it aches as it slides its way down.

“What do you mean?” she asks, hands sweating, “Will I not marry my brother, as you and my mother have done? As the dreamer and the glorious did before us?”

His hand returns to its place over hers and she swallows the need to drag her fingers away, to slap him.

“Maybe not,” the King says, sighing, “Aenys is my heir and you are my only daughter. Our hold in these Seven Kingdoms is precarious, at best, and we need friends if we wish to remain on our throne. These families have been here for thousands of years, and have known each other for generations. We are the outsiders and because of that, we are at a disadvantage.”

“So you would marry me off? Marry  _ us _ off?” she asks, “I’d be Lady of Winterfell and Aenys would have a Lannister as his bride? Is that your plan, to make these Westeros lords believe they are our equals?” She turns to Aenys, “Do you agree with this? Did you  _ know  _ about this?”

Aenys shakes his head, “I will do my duty, sister, and marry whoever our father chooses for me.”

“Child,” King Aegon says, caressing the back of her hand, “I know it’s hard to understand, but your marriage to your brother could bring us more ruin than fortune. The Faith will oppose it, and the other lords…”

She drags her hand away from him, stubborn tears bubbling in her eyes, “Stop calling me child! My name is Maegara, and you are talking about taking my destiny away from me! Stealing my children’s inheritance!”

Her father and brother stare at her, blinking their eyes. She knows her outburst was unnecessary, and might even have made things worst, but she can feel the anger burning away at her insides, the offense that Father would dare to say another woman was more worthy of the crown than her.  _ I’ll be Queen,  _ she thinks,  _ Mother said so, and Mother never lies.  _

Maegara looks at her plate and rubs her eyes, willing the tears to go away. “May I be excused? I have lost my appetite.”

Father sighs and nods. Before he can say anything, Maegara stands up and leaves the chamber, dragging her purple skirts away.

* * *

_ Maegara, _

_ Your father writes to me about how you are such a clever girl and determined. He says you are polite during supper. That’s good. I know how sweet you can be when you want to, and how well-behaved.  _

_ He hasn’t mentioned anything about a marriage between you and Aenys, which disappoints me. I was expecting you to have charmed your brother already by now. You are young, but like I said, very sweet when you want to. Aegon loves Aenys more than he loves himself and if the heir wishes to marry you then there is nothing your father can do about it. _

_ Hopefully, his next letter will bring me happier news. _

_ Your mother. _

Maegara crumbles the paper in her hand, willing the words to vanish from her mind. Her cheeks burn in embarrassment at having failed her mother, at being expected to charm her older brother into marrying her. Gods, why can’t father just set the damn date? Why must she do all the work? This is outrageous.

She moves away from the window, turning to the corridor in front of Maester Orwyle’s rooms, and starts walking. She opens and closes her mother’s letter again and again, as if that will make its content change, and attempts to relax her body. She is so tense and so angry. Angry at her mother for expecting her to charm her brother, angry at her brother for being so painfully shy, angry at her father for wanting to give her rightful crown to Alyssa Velaryon.

She opens her mother’s letter again, reading her words once more, and wonders why her mother couldn't simply tell Maegara how to charm Aenys. Would it be so difficult to simply explain how these things go? Maegara knows her mother didn't always remain faithful to her father and there had always been a litter of Visenya's favorites walking around Dragonstone when she was a girl.

She shakes herself and takes a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. Her mother didn't tell her because she trusted Maegara. She would never have given her daughter this task if she didn’t have faith in her, and if Mother believed in her capabilities, then she can do this. She  _ will  _ do this.

Maegara stops in the middle of the corridor and smiles, feeling like a weight has been lifted off her chest. She folds the letter in itself, and turns around, leading herself back to her chambers where she will write an answer for her mother. Words fly in her mind as she thinks about what she will say.

_ Dearest mother, _

_ Do not worry. Plans have already been set in motion. I have a long term… _

The voice of her father makes her stop in her tracks. King Aegon has such a strong and powerful voice that it causes her entire body to turn in his direction, wanting to listen and obey his commands. Perhaps this is why so many people were willing to follow him. Because his voice could draw thousands wishing to hear his words.

She is on a corridor in Dragonstone, hands by her side as the swish of her green skirt moves around her body, still carrying the force of her movement. There is a window by her side, where the grey sea crashes on the jagged rocks of the shores, and the weak sunlight streams inside the castle, warming her skin with its gentle touch. She can’t see a door, and the stone walls that surround her are clean of any opening, and she wonders where her father is. From where does he speak so kingly?

“ _ Of course, with the Princess so close to womanhood, many lords are seeking her hand, _ ” the Hand of the King says and her heart races in her chest. Maegara looks around her, stepping closer to the wall by her side, and leans her head in, trying to listen more closely. Her father is probably in the middle of a smallcouncil meeting and it would be rude to eavesdrop on them, perhaps even treasonous, but they are talking about  _ her.  _ Surely the king, her father, would forgive her for this,  _ “Lord Tyrell has a young son who is of an age with her and invites the Princess to Highgarden to meet him.” _

_ “Ah yes. Willas. A good lad, Your Grace, and very honorable,”  _ says the Grand Maester with his wheezing voice. Maegara rolls her eyes at the sound of him. She always found him to be very irritant, with his small body and tiny hands,  _ “A little over seventeen, as I recall.” _

Maegara doesn’t care about Willas Tyrell’s honor. He is beneath her. She is of the dragon’s seed, her blood is that of Old Valyria. There is only one man worthy of becoming her husband and he definitely doesn’t belong to House Tyrell. For the Maiden, the Tyrells were never even kings! A Lannister, she could understand, or maybe even one of Uncle Orys’ sons, but a Tyrell is simply too lowborn for a Princess of House Targaryen.

The Hand is a fool if he thinks she will ever accept being tied down to anyone. Aenys will be her husband, or no one else.

“ _ Maegara is but too young for a marriage,”  _ her father answers, his voice dismissive. He still sees her as a child, then. Maegara tries not to let it hurt her, even though the words burn her skin as they course through her, and her eyes ache with angry tears.

_ “The princess flowers by the day. She is no longer a little girl, my king. She is a maiden and blossoming into womanhood, Your Grace. Three short years before she is a woman grown and fit for marriage. Surely it is the time to begin discussions, _ " says the Lord Commander. Maegara remembers how he winked at her every time he saw her and she tried not to let his last name of Velaryon mold her image of him. It seemed she was wrong. All seahorses are backstabbing traitors.

_ “I must insist it is not the time, Lord Commander,"  _ her father answers and she almost loves him for his refusal, if it didn't mean that he also didn't consider her as a bride even for her own brother.

_“Your Grace, you and I are kin and I can assure you I share your heart,_ " says her cousin, Lord Aethan Velaryon, and her father's master of ships _._ Even if it weren't for his last name and his relations to the woman that wanted to steal her husband and crown, she would hate him. Aethan had a thin build and yellow teeth that offended her whenever he would smile, " _I_ _was loathed to admit my Alyssa had blossomed into womanhood, but she has, and so too will Maegara. We must discuss the matter of her marriage.”_

_ “Aethan, dear cousin, I must insist you reach your true point,” _ Maegara remembers her mother once told her that she was too much like her father. She must have been around ten years old, and already turned her feelings of paternal longing to despise, and what should have been a compliment only turned into an offense.

Maegara was much like Aegon, that was true, and maybe this is why she will always hate her father because she too would have grown tired of Aethan Velaryon's attempt at coyness.

She imagines Aethan’s smile as he says,  _ “I should hope Your Grace might reconsider my offer of Daemon for the princess. He shall be Lord of Driftmark after me and is a fine young man, only some five years older than Prince Aenys. I have taught my son well and he shall treat Princess Maegara as befits her rank.” _

_ “He is ten years older than her,"  _ her father replies as if that is the only thing stopping him from tying her to Daemon Velaryon. Maegara leans more on the wall, the stone scraping at her cheek until it's sore and aching.

_ “Your Grace desires a long betrothal, so be it. She shall be well-provided for and you may rest easier with her marriage guaranteed,”  _ Lord Aethan continues, undeterred by her father's rebuttal, " _ With Princess Maegara settled, His Grace may even look favorably upon marrying Prince Aenys to my daughter, Lady Alyssa. They are of the same age and you can rest assured that many grandchildren will be born from either side." _

Her father hesitates and Maegara holds her breath, waiting for his refusal, waiting to hear him say that how dare Lord Aethan to think his whelp is good enough for those of royal birth. She waits and waits, but, like always, her father disappoints her.

_ "I shall think on it,”  _ he says and Maegara steps back, her ears ringing. She can't think, she can't breathe. The entire world spins around her and she thinks she might throw up, dry-heaving heavily and only her empty stomach prevents her from making a mess of her new dress.

A throaty cry rings out around her. The sound of pure pain smarts her ears as she places her hands on her stomach, unable to steady herself, and Maegara idly wonders if an injured deer has found its way into the castle before she realizes the cry came from her. Tears slide down her cheeks, hot and tragic, and she turns and turns, unable to find an escape.

May the gods have mercy on her. Maegara walks around aimlessly, unable to see past her blinding tears, and the world feels like it tilts on itself. Her knees buckle under her weight and she leans her body on the wall, trying not to fall.

How could Father think so lowly of her? How could he even consider Daemon to be a possible husband for her? To be  _ worthy  _ of her? Is Daemon Velaryon what he wants for his only daughter?

_ Mother is the only one who loves me _ , she thinks as her blood stills in her veins, locking her body, and breaking her heart,  _ Mother saw me as the future Queen. Father will not even give me to a Lord Paramount.  _ Even Willas Tyrell didn't seem so bad now when compared to the lowly Velaryons.

They were valyrians, yes, but they left the peninsula many years before the doom and had never once ridden a dragon. Their lands were the rocky island of Driftmark, and nothing beyond, despite their claims of dominion over the high seas. Perhaps once the Targaryens were overlords of just Dragonstone consorting with them was a daily occurrence, but now, when their rule stretched over the red dunes of Dorne and extended to the snowy mounts of the North, none but themselves were worthy of wearing the crown.

Was all of this just because she hadn't claimed a dragon yet? If she was a rider, would her father wed her to Aenys? Did he see her as weak because of this, not capable of carrying the grandchildren that would rule the Seven Kingdoms? Balerion the Great Dread was the only dragon meant for her, but Father would never understand her destiny as anything other than her wanting to steal away his mount.

How could she make him see that she was a true princess, worthy of bearing the name Targaryen? How, father, how?

"Maegara?" a gentle voice calls to her and soft hands touch her arms, caressing her exposed skin. Maegara opens her eyes, startled, and sees her brother, Aenys, staring at her. He's frowning, his lilac eyes puzzled as they slide over her face, taking in her wet cheeks, puffy eyes, and shaking hands, "Sister, what is wrong?"

_ Thank you, Father. _

She doesn't ignore the opportunity presenting itself before her. Maegara throws her body forward, wrapping her arms around him. She cries harder, shaking her shoulders and biting her inner cheek until it draws blood. The pain is instantaneous and perfect.

"Oh, Aenys, it is terrible," she sobs, "Oh, Aenys, please, you must help me."

Her brother hesitates and she wonders if she is trying too much, before his arms circle her waist, holding her to him, "What's wrong? Tell me, sister, what makes you cry so?"

Maegara leans back, looking at him. They are almost the same height now, but her brother is still slender and slim, while she is twice his size, almost fat-looking.

It doesn't matter though. Aenys looks at her with worry stamped on his eyes, his pink lips slightly open as if he might ask another question, and she knows she has him. Mother would be so proud of her.

"It's Father," she says, curling her lips into a pitiful pout, "I overheard him talking with the smallcouncil. They wish to betroth me to Daemon Velaryon. He is ten years older than me! And a man whom I have never met! Oh, Aenys, it's terrible! Oh, please you must help me!"

Her brother licks his lips, hesitant, "I have met Ser Daemon. He is a good man. I'm sure it will not be so bad, sister."

Maegara takes her hands away from his neck, covering her face, "But what if he has shown you a false persona? Once we are married, I will be his property. He may do whatever he wants to me. He could be cruel, or lecherous. Oh, brother, it is terrible, so terrible." She hugs him again, sobbing, and feels her brother tense beneath her.

"Father will not let him treat you badly," he says, "He is the King. His word is the law."

"Father doesn't care about me," she cries and leans back again, looking in his eyes, "Please, Aenys. Father listens to you. He cares about your opinion. Please, brother, help me."

"Maegara, if this match is what father wishes…"

"Please, Aenys!" Maegara asks, "Please, promise me you will help me. Promise you will help me stop this marriage. You are the only one I can trust."

Even before the words have left her lips, she knows she has him. Aenys widens his eyes, but he nods fervently, hugging her tighter. She leans her head on his shoulder, shaking so hard that she thinks she might break.

“I will, sister,” he says, “I promise.”

* * *

Ser Gawen Corbray, her mother’s master-at-arms, doesn’t care that she is a princess or that she now bears Dark Sister. He only cares about what she shows him in the courtyard, if she has the strength to stand up again after being thrown in the dirt, and will not hesitate to hurt her if that will make her learn. More often than not, she leaves her training sessions with bruises and cuts all over her body. 

Maegara can’t appreciate him enough for that. His actions may be hard, but they make her strong, and she needs to be strong. Now and always.

“Raise your arm higher,” he says. Despite running around her for over two hours, he doesn’t show any sign of being out of breath, and Maegara tries to mimic his steady breathing. _ In and out, in and out, in and out _ , “You may be tall for your age, but there are men who will not hesitate to cut you down from above if you meet them on the battlefield.”

Maegara raises her arm higher, even when her muscles burn from the weight of the sword, and smiles through gritted teeth. Her body aches and she yearns for a respite, just a second to rest and regain her footing. Ser Gawen will not let her though, and she wonders why, what happened to make him so strict today. He steps around her more forcibly, meeting her every strike with practiced moves

_ Maybe it’s Father _ , she thinks,  _ He wants to show Father how good of a teacher he is.  _ But Father isn’t even watching them. He is in a smallcouncil meeting, with all his Masters of Coin, of Ships, of Laws, trying to rule the patched-work he called a kingdom. If he wanted to be there, he would. If he wanted to care about her, he would.

“Well done,” he says, settling his body into position, “And keep your shield up.” She does.

Her instructor steps forward, raising his arm, and the song of steel hitting steel flies through the yard. Maegara holds Dark Sister with sure fingers, meeting every blow Ser Gawen sends her way, trying to find an opening in his stance.

She doesn’t know who is watching them, can’t pay attention to them without risking a loss to Ser Gawen. Maybe knights in her father’s service, with their squires and some of the guard. Maybe even Aenys is watching her, and she hopes he is. If she manages to send Ser Gawen to the ground, an occurrence so rare that deserves a celebration by the end of the day, then she will turn to him and say,  _ Look. I am strong. Stronger than you. If we wed and you raise a hand to me, I will not hesitate to cut out your pretty little prick, even if it means the end of the Targaryen male-line. _

She is distracted by her thoughts for only a second, but it's enough for the old knight. He runs to her, moving his sword in practiced moves, and, before she knows, Maegara is on the ground, staring into the gray Dragonstone sky. She blinks away at her pain, trying to find the breath that left her body suddenly, and she hears the jeering laughs of the men around her.

Her cheeks flush from embarrassment, and she stands up. Maegara's back is pulsing with pain and she must have pulled a muscle, but she tries to ignore the pain.

"Do you want to stop?" Ser Gawen asks and Maegara shakes her head.

"No," she says and he smiles. He  _ is _ proud of her. She can see it. For her entire life, only Ser Gawen and her mother ever believed in her.

He steps forward, raising his sword hand, and Maegara does the same. The steel rings as they meet, echoing through the courtyard. Her heart races as she steps back, eyes watching Ser Gawen for an opening.

He notices it rather quickly though and dodges her attempts to cut through his defenses.

"You're impulsive," the knight says, "Your blood runs hot. Try and be more level-headed."

"My blood is of the dragon," she responds as if that is enough explanation. Ser Gawen arches an eyebrow and his laugh burns her ears. Maegara feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"And so you have told me, but all I see is a green little girl," he japes and her cheeks flush, even more, burning with a fresh wave of anger and her hands shake.

_ He wouldn't say this to me if I were a boy, _ she thinks. Maegara walks to him, swinging her sword around. She knows her movements are clumsy now, less-polished, but she doesn’t care. Her blood burns with the offense, and she can’t help but think about the knights that are laughing around her, laughing at her.

_ I am a Princess _ , she thinks as she raises her sword,  _ I am of the dragon’s seed, nourished in the womb of the sole surviving Dragon Queen. My blood is made of flame and ash. _

The first thing she feels is pain, burning on her left cheek, as a hot and thick liquid slides down her chin. Maegara blinks and steps back. She drops her shield and brings her hand to her face, touching the aching side of her cheek. When she looks at her fingers again, she finds them red with blood.

Before she can speak, thunderous steps invade the courtyard, and a voice roars in her ears, “What in the Gods’ name is happening here?”

Maegara turns around to see who has come, even though she already knows, and sees her father walking in her direction, two knights of the Kingsguard behind him, flanking and protect his body. The sea of men that had been watching her part to let him pass, falling on their knees in sight of the King and Maegara feels her body freeze in place. Her knees lock, her feet sink in the mud, and her hands fall limply by her side. Even if she wanted to, she doesn’t move, and only watches as her father comes closer and closer.

“What is this?” King Aegon I asks, looking at her.

“I was training the Princess, Your Grace,” Ser Gawen says, standing up, “Her Grace, Queen Visenya ordered me not to neglect her studies while she was away.”

Maegara doesn’t think she has ever seen her father like this. His jaw is locked, his eyes are wide and his whole body is shaking, not with fear, but with anger. He looks at her with confusion, with anger, and she sees that the purple in his eyes has been overtaken by the black of his pupil. He is wearing his black doublet and breeches, with his valyrian steel crown over his fine silver hair, and suddenly, understanding fills her.  _ This is the man that burned down Harrenhal and killed all the Westerman soldiers. This is the man that ended the Hoare and Gardener lines. Before, he was my father, and now he is King Aegon. The Conqueror, The Dragon. _

Father looks from Ser Gawen to her, mouth set in a thin and tight line on his face.

“And why,” he says, haltingly as if trying to contain himself, “Would my thirteen-year-old daughter ever need to learn how to wield a sword?”

Maegara steps forward, not willing to have him say that she shouldn’t wield a sword because of her sex or her age. She will not hear it, not even from her own father. She has already learned much about a woman’s supposed weaknesses.

“It was Mother’s decision,” she murmurs, “Mother says I need to know how to defend myself.”

“You don’t need to know how to defend yourself,” her father responds, “There are over a thousand guards on Dragostone, as well as the entirety of the Kingsguard. If anyone wishes to harm you, they shall have to face my white cloaks first.”

Maegara wants to say that the white cloaks are not his. Mother created the Kingsguard, chose its first members, wrote their vows herself. If anyone owns them, it’s her, not Father. But she can’t say that. Not to the King. So she bites her tongue to keep her anger from spilling and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, willing herself to calm down. This will all blow over, she knows it and if she just lets Father express his feelings, he will soon compose himself. Everything is fine.

But everything soon is not fine, for Father looks at her, surveying her padded armor up and down, and sees the sword at her right hand. His eyes go wide again and he parts his mouth slightly, surely recognizing the blade and the handle, because how could he not? This very sword has saved his life a thousand times and will save his son’s life another thousand. This blade is Dark Sister, forged in the flames of Old Valyria, and an ancestral weapon of House Targaryen.

“How do you have that?” he questions, pointing at Dark Sister, and Maegara sees the two white cloaks shifting beside him as if his own daughter could be a threat to the King.

“Mother gave it to me,” she says, standing straighter. He will not see her as a little girl now, not when she explains. He will see her as a woman, his son’s bride, and the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He must or she will surely go mad.

“Your mother  _ lent  _ it to you, you mean,” Father says, a disbelieving smile on his face.

Maegara flushes and she feels the weight of everyone looking at her. Not just those who were watching her spar with Ser Gawen, but also those members of the court who followed her father here. She sees Aethan Velaryon’s light blue eyes, and Maester Orwyle’s sad face, and she even sees Aenys, watching as their father reprimanded her in public.

“No,” she says, “I meant what I said. My mother gave the sword to me at my nameday.”

“Don’t lie,” he orders and she trembles, “Why would your mother do that? Do you take me for a fool?” he asks, “You do not give a sword to a child. Even Visenya knows this. You stole the blade from the Queen’s room, didn’t you?”

“I am not a child and I am not lying!” she shouts, her eyes burning with her unshed tears, “My mother gave this to me as a present for my thirteenth nameday.”  _ And you gave me nothing, not even a letter. _

“If your mother thinks a sword is an appropriate gift, then I have made an even greater mistake letting you stay here than I originally thought.” 

"What?" she asks, not understanding what he is saying. Her father reaches forward and violently wrenches Dark Sister from her grasp, pulling her fingers so hard that they snap, stretching beyond their capabilities. Maegara doesn't let the pain overcrowd her, though, not being able to think of anything beyond her sword, the one Mother gave to her, in her father's hands, "Give it back! It's mine!"

She sounds childish, but it doesn't matter. She feels childish. She wants to stomp her feet and cry until the pain in her hand overcomes the pain in her heart. The cut on her cheek seems distant now, like something that happened to another girl.

Her father looks at her as if he doesn't know her. And he doesn't, isn't that right? You can't know someone if you haven't talked to them in the past five years.

You can't be a father to a child you don't love. And he doesn't love her. He never will. Mother is the only one who loves her, the only one who cares.

"My mother gave it to me!" she responds and walks forward, attempting to take the sword back.

Her father is taller than her, though, and stronger. He stops her with a hand on her chest, handing the sword to one of the white cloaks beside him. Maegara follows the man with her eyes as he leaves the courtyard, certainly to take  _ her _ sword to somewhere where she can't get it back.

"This shall go to its rightful place!" her father states, grabbing her arm, "And you will go change your clothes, so you may return to your lessons with Septa Sylvia."

Her blood burns. Maegara feels her jaw locking in place, her entire face curling as if she might roar against him. Anger runs through her veins like hot poison, simmering under her skin, and boiling her organs until there is nothing left but ashes.

She has felt this way before. She remembers now. When she was a child, barely a maiden, with the palfrey and the stable boy, but there is no weapon on her hand now and she can't fight back against her father. He is the King, the Dragon, the Conqueror, and she is just a girl.

But that doesn't stop the words from spilling over her lips, "I hate you! I hate you! You haven't come to see me in five years and now you want to play at being a father? I hate you!"

Father shakes his head, pulling her arm so hard that she is half-afraid he will pull it out of its socket, "It seems your mother has erred in keeping you here. I should've brought you to King's Landing as a babe like I intended to. That way, you would have been taught better respect!"

"How dare you talk about my mother like that?" she questions him, spitting out the words. Maegara is always angry, but now, especially so. She doesn't see the King when she looks at Aegon. She only sees a weak man who couldn't conquer the Dornish and failed to save his family, "She is ten times the ruler you are! She loves and cares about me! She has raised me all these years, while you did nothing, but hide inside the Aegonfort, mourning my dead aunt!"

Bringing up Rhaenys was the wrong thing to do, Maegara knows as soon as she says it, but she doesn't regret it. She can't regret it, not even when her father widens his eyes and gasps erupt from the crowd around them.

She heaves, attempting to regain control of her breathing, and her father pulls her arm, turning back from where he came from. He is stronger than her, even at his advanced age, and as he walks, she goes with him.

Maegara struggles as best as she can, fighting against him, and the crowd parts to let them through. What an image they must be, she wonders. The King and his unruly daughter. If she were not a part of this tragic portrait, she would find it lovely.

"Let me go!" she screams, fighting and cursing as her father pulls her into the castle, and through the corridors. The servants fall into curtsies as they pass, eyes wide with shock, "Let me go! Let me go! I hate you!  _ I hate you!" _

He doesn't say anything. He never even looks at her, only turned forward, and Maegara quickly recognizes where they are going. She was born in this castle, took her first steps inside these stone walls. She knows its maze-like interior as if it were the back of her hand.

He is taking her to her bedchambers. 

Maegara sticks her feet on the ground and wishes, perhaps for the first time, that she was bigger, heavier, harder to move around. She is twice the size of girls her age, but Father seems to have no trouble dragging her as if she were a naughty child who hadn't done her lessons.

A guard opens her heavy wooden door and Father steps inside, throwing her on the floor. Maegara produces her arms forward to catch herself, but she is too late, and the side of her face hits the cold ground. Her hair has come out of its braid, silver tresses falling around her vision like a curtain, and she has to turn to look back at her father.

He must certainly feel powerful now, looking down at her as if she is nothing but the dirt in the sole of his boot. His eyes are sad, though, and the notion that he pities her almost makes her throw up.

"You shall stay here until you learn some respect," he says, hands by his side, "However long that may be, you shall stay here. After you do, your lessons with Ser Gawen will be no more."

"You're not my father," she murmurs, still on the ground, "I hate you!"

It doesn't seem her words have had any effect on him, because he sighs as if she is simply a child that has been caught sneaking into the kitchen, "Meals will be brought to you twice a day, and I will tell Septa Sylvia to bring you some embroidery wheels. I have been told it soothes the mind. Perhaps this shall make you learn to respect your King"

She laughs and the sound is foreign to her ears, "You don't know me at all if you think this shall break me."

He blinks and for just a moment, she thinks she has stunned him, but the moment doesn't last very long and Father too laughs. Maegara closes her mouth when she realizes that he laughs just like her.

"The choice to break or not is yours, Maegara. Either way, you will stay here until I say so." He shrugs, "You may lie and say I'm not your father, but that doesn't change the truth." Father takes one last look at her and turns, walking out of her room. The guards that followed them close her door and she hears the latch shut on the other side, locking her in.

Maegara stands up and runs to the door, the only door in her room, throwing her entire body against its wooden frame, but it does her no good. She may be heavy, but the door is stronger than her. She remembers someone once told her that her mother had chosen this specific room for her because it would stop any possible assassin from coming in and slaying the infant Princess who was too young to defend herself.

Her entire side aches as she continues throwing herself against the door, hoping that the continued assault will help her. It doesn’t and she falls, weakly, on the ground again, breathless. She is bruised all over, from the training with Ser Gawen and the fight with her father, and will certainly find herself black and blue in the morrow, but she doesn’t care. She can’t care, because all there is in her heart is hatred. Hatred for her father, hatred for her brother, hatred for her mother. She hates all of them, but, most importantly, she hates the gods for making her a girl. A stupid jape, meant to entertain their sickly divine minds. She hates them. She hates all of them.

An hour passes before she can stand up again, her legs trembling underneath her weight, and Maegara looks around her. Her rooms are rather simple; there is a bed with a Myrish headboard and northern furs to warm her nights from the cold Dragonstone air. Two trunks with her dresses, shifts, petticoats, shoes, and stockings. A writing desk and a dressing table, littered with perfumes sent by the lords of the Crownlands seeking her mother’s favor. Her hearth is half-lit, the burning logs losing their strength by the second. There is even her jewelry box, opened as she had planned to embellish herself for supper in the Great Hall, but this will never happen now.

Maegara grunts as she walks around, sniffing the air like an animal, and she pulls the covers from her bed. She tears apart the Lyseni sheets and rips the pillows, sending a million feathers into the air. Glass bottles break on the floor, spilling their scented liquids as she flips over her vanity table, and her ink stains the ground when she does the same to her writing desk.

Her throat feels raw and sore. It takes nearly all of her mind to realize that she is screaming as she destroys her room, throwing her old dolls into the fire. Maegara doesn’t miss noticing how her female dolls always had swords in their hands, and the male wore crowns. All of them were given to her by her mother. How could she be so stupid to not realize the true future the Queen had planned for her?

She cuts her dresses, pulling at the seams, and destroying the stitches with her teeth until everything around her is destroyed. The remnants of her childhood, gone. Smoke fills the air and she coughs, placing a hand on her forehead as the world spins under her feet.

Maegara falls on the ground, tired of all this exertion. As she blinks slowly, falling asleep, she can’t help but realize how utterly alone she truly is.


	2. Chapter 2

Maegara stays in her chamber for three days before her brother comes to see her.

She is sitting on the ground, legs extended before her. No one has come to clean her rooms, and there are still pieces of ripped fabric, burned remnants of what was once a doll, and the sharded glasses of her broken perfume bottles around her. Maegara stares at her hearth, stuffed with the things that she wanted to remove from this world, and doesn’t move as she listens to the guards' conversation on the other side of her walls.

For three days, Septa Sylvia has attempted to speak to her, thinking her familiar face would ease the rebellion inside the Princess’ heart. When the guards first let her through, Maegara threw her embroidery hoops at the woman, hoping to catch her head. The next time, she only knocked on the door, slipping inside a Seven-Pointed Star and whispering about the pages that would calm her nerves. Maegara mostly ignored the book, feeling like the Seven would do her no good at the moment. They had already ruined everything by making her a girl in Mother’s womb, what use could their meaningless words have now?

Maegara feels weak, her stomach rolling in her empty belly. Hunger is a strange pain, she thinks. It eats away at her insides, chipping her stomach like an artist chiseling a stone for his craft. A maid had come to give her food twice a day, but she refused to eat, and only sipped the water. Her head is heavy, pending forward, but she doesn’t allow herself to be fragile. Not even for one moment. She sleeps most of the day now, unable to open her eyes or be alert for more than a few hours at a time like her body is trying to ration what remaining strength she might have left.

She is a mess. Her mother would be disappointed in her state. Maegara can almost imagine Visenya’s face if she were to look at her now. Her lips would pucker disapprovingly and she would angle her head slightly, tapping her fingers as she considers her options on how to solve this problem. If Queen Visenya were there, she would have pulled Maegara’s head back by now, tilting a glass of water into her open mouth, a possible choking notwithstanding, and shoved large loaves of bread in her face, ordering her to eat.

“Silly child,” she would say, tapping her cheek with two of her fingers, “Do you wish to ruin all of our plans because of a simple scuffle with your father? I have raised you to be better than this.”

Maegara misses her so much. She closes her eyes and presses a hand against her face, pretending that Mother is there by her side. Oh, how Mother would be angry at her. She would roar about her misbehavior, about her tantrums. Maegara can almost see Visenya running around her, pointing at every mistake in her figure. 

Her hair is wild. She hasn’t brushed it since the day of her outburst in the courtyard, and sleeping on the ground certainly doesn’t help. Half of her body feels numb and cold, like a part of her has died sometime in the past three days. She hasn’t changed her clothes and is still on the dirty padded armor of her training, the rough fabric tugging at her skin. There is a weird taste on her mouth and she is certain that she smells from the lack of baths. Her cheek feels sore, and she wonders if the cut left there by Ser Gawen is infected. The guards prevented Maester Orwyle from coming in to check it and she can’t be bothered to tend to it herself. Let the pain of it be a reminder of what her father has done.

She knows she doesn’t look at all like a Princess and, for that reason alone, she feels victorious. This is what Father wanted. He wanted to see her bend under his rule, to break her until she is nothing more than an obedient daughter, a Princess to be seen but never heard. But Father made a mistake. Maegara will never be that girl. Everyone shall hear her. They shall hear her.

She can hear the guards rustling outside of her door, standing up straighter and tidying up their armors. Maegara wonders for half a second if Father has come to see her before she hears Sir Martyn speak.

_ “Your Grace, the King has asked that no one see the Princess without his say so,” _ the dragonseed says and Maegara feels her heart quicken at the notion that her brother is out there, coming to see her without their father’s permission.

She pinches her leg and opens her eyes wide, wishing for tears to come to her. Maegara rearranges her position, sitting on her ankles, and rubs her face until her cheeks are raw and red. She feels as if her faith has come again, because how could Aenys being out there, wanting to see her be anything other than the Maiden’s work?

Maegara pats her head and regrets not looking more polished, although perhaps Aenys would question such a sight. A bedraggled look was sure to garner some sympathy for her in her brother’s mind, if the guards will simply let him in.

_ “She is my sister,” _ Aenys responds,  _ “And I only wish to speak to her. I’m sure she has had little company as of late, and that doesn’t seem entirely fit for a Princess.”  _ No one says anything for a few seconds and Maegara imagines that the guards are exchanging looks, trying to decide on what to do about the situation. She hears Aenys sigh, exacerbated,  _ “What can I do? I have nothing on my person, as you may see. Will you be so cruel as to deny this girl the chance to see and speak with her brother?” _

The guards don’t say anything more and Maegara crawls away as they push the door open, laying her head on the ground as if she were asleep. She feels the light of the corridor invading her bedchambers, it has been dark for so long, and blinks open her eyes, parting her lips slightly as she sees Aenys stepping in. Her brother looks around the room before he sees her, his eyes wide and his mouth open with shock at her state.

“Aenys?” she whispers, choked up, “Aenys, is that you?”

He runs to her, falling on his knees, and Maegara closes her eyes as he presses a hand to her bruised cheek. His palms are soft and gentle, much softer than her own mother’s touch, “Yes,” he says, “I’m here.”

“Oh, Aenys,” she murmurs, looking at him. Aenys’ eyes are a shade of beautiful lilac, more suited to a female face than a male one. Maegara knows her own eyes match their father’s, a purple so dark that it’s almost black, “You shouldn’t be here. Father said no one may speak to me.”

“I couldn’t sleep knowing you were here all alone,” her brother admits, “And now that I see you, I understand how my visit was much needed.”

Maegara curls her nose in itself, sniveling, and lowers her eyes, looking at him from under her lashes. She shakes her shoulders, placing her hands on her brother’s chest, and leans forward, almost hugging him. Their heads are so close now that it would be simple to kiss him, if only she wanted to and the time was auspicious.

She can see his entire face now, despite the darkness of her own and the closed-door now preventing the light from the corridor from spilling in. His lashes are a shade of silver darker than his hair, and his nose is delightfully turned upwards at the end. His lips, which are full and heart-shaped just like hers, are a lovely shade of pink. He is very handsome, even more so under the moonlight.

“It’s all my fault,” she whispers, “I have disappointed Father. Words cannot describe how regretful I am of my ill behavior. This imprisonment is a small mercy to a wretched child such as myself.”

Her brother puts another hand to her cheek, holding her face tightly between his hands. He brings her eyes to his and she sees how determined they are, how strong, and perhaps, for the first time in her entire life, Maegara notices how alike her brother and father are. In the shadow of his pupil she can see the man, and the king, he could be, were he not so desperate to be loved and liked by everyone. Strong and firm, but also gentle and kind. A true King, ready to mend his people together.

“Don’t speak like that,” says Aenys, “You are not wretched. You are just… Alone. And scared.”

“He said the truth,” she sobs, “Oh, I'm so foolish. All I wanted was for Father to love me. Mother said he supported her endeavors with the sword, and I thought he would do the same to me. I just wanted to make him proud, to see how much my mother trusts me.”

Aenys gulps visibly and she doesn’t believe the words that he says next, “Father was too harsh on the courtyard, humiliating you like that. He ought to have been more patient.”

Maegara sniffles, rubbing her eyes so he doesn’t see the lack of tears, and shakes her head, “He will never be patient with me, I’m afraid. Father hates me.”

“He doesn’t,” Aenys says, “We’re his children. He loves you just as much as he loves me.”

“Father will never love me as he loves you,” she murmurs, “Not because of your gender, but because of who your mother was. Aegon loves your mother, while he hates mine. You are his desire and I’m his duty.”

“Maegara…” Aenys starts, eyes downcast at the mention of his beloved mother. Maegara thinks about what her mother once told her, that her brother had broken after the death of Rhaenys. He returned to crawling around as a babe and only improved once he was given the hatchling, later called Quicksilver, “I’m sure you are…”

“Think about it,” she interrupts him, “You lived with him in King’s Landing, while my mother and I remained here. For five years, he failed to visit us. Not a single letter came from his hand. Why would he do this if he loved me?”

Aenys frowns and she can see he is thinking about it. His eyes are moving from one side to the other, considering, and Maegara knows she has to let these thoughts grow inside his head. Aenys can’t give voice to his doubts and questions or else all will be for naught. For this reason alone, Maegara leans forward, even more, dropping her voice to a hushed whisper. As they breathe, their breaths mingled in the air and she can almost taste the wine and mint on his mouth.

“I beg of you to speak with the King on my behalf,” Maegara says, almost crying, “Please, tell him that my heart is filled with sorrow. I regret my outburst and will be a dutiful daughter from now on. Please, Aenys, do this one thing for me. He won’t listen to me, but he might listen to you if you intercede with him on my behalf.”

Aenys closes his mouth, as he had been ready to contest her reasons for Father’s dislike of her, and nods. “Anything for you, dear sister,” he says.

Maegara smiles and presses her lips to his cheek, on the corner of his mouth. Aenys holds his breath audibly as she does it and Maegara almost smiles, taking a second longer than normal to remove her mouth from his face. As she does, she looks straight into his eyes, which are wide, and sees the blush overtaking his cheeks.

“Thank you, dearest…” she starts, “Brother.”

Aenys gulps and Maegara smiles.

* * *

_ The Maid brought him forth a girl as supple as a willow with eyes like deep blue pools and Hugor declared that he would have her for his bride. So the Mother made her fertile, and the Crone foretold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons. The Warrior gave strength to their arms, whilst the Smith wrought for each a suit of iron plates… _

Maegara closes her book, shutting the pages with a loud thud. She swallows down the want to throw the tome against the wall, watching it splatter and slide down to the floor. Instead, she opens it again, pressing her lips in a tight line on her face. Her tongue touches her inner lower lip, feeling the small fleshy bump resultant from her chewing it over and over again during the past hour.

After her brother left, she had a sound and safe sleep, knowing her imprisonment would soon be over. As the hours pass without her father coming in to set her free, Maegara even manages to eat her dinner from the previous night, and the buttered bread and warm milk sent by the kitchens for her to break her three-day fast. Her head feels much clearer and the hours seem longer than before, as if she is more awake now than she was previously.

This left her with a whole lot more boredom than before, an unfortunate side of her having all of her faculties back. Forced by this to find something to fill her hours until Father arrives, she picked up The Seven-Pointed Star left there by Septa Sylvia, reading the words written by lesser men than herself. Maegara perhaps hoped to find some wisdom in those lines, something to illuminate her path in the following days or something that showed the Seven were by her side.

Surely they intended for her to marry Aenys, no? Why else would they make her a girl, born just young enough to make her the perfect, though not the first, option for a bride to her older brother? As her father considered Alyssa Velaryon to be Queen, Mother fell pregnant with Maegara, showing him the true path if he only decided to look at it. And was it not the gods who made the valyrians as they were, giving them the dragons and the power to bend the world under their rule? How could it be wrong for her to marry her brother and produce perfect children? A Valyrian had created the Iron Throne and only a Valyrian could keep it.

Maegara sighs, flicking the pages on her book, searching the passage that had been read to her by Septa Sylvia when she was just a little girl. Her mother didn’t like it, believing the Septa to be filling her mind with nonsensical ideas, but, for some reason, she allowed it to continue. It doesn’t take long for her to find it, her eyes recognizing the sections that come right before it, and she settles back into the wall as she reads.

_ The Father Above, whose law is good and just, commands that all pious souls must abstain from engaging in the egregious sin of incest. It is an abomination in the eyes of the Seven for father to lie with daughter, for mother to lie with son, for brother to lie with sister, for niece to lie with uncle and aunt to lie with nephew. Any soul committing incest will be damned to the dark fiery halls of the Lord of the Seven Hells, and any child born of incest will be marked as an abomination. _

Maegara purses her lips, frowning. She flicks the pages again, unable to hold herself back, and settles her eyes on another passage. Sighing, she continues to read.

_ Every child that is born was given to us by the gods. Only the gods may decide to give or take a life, and those who kill are condemned to spend eternity in the deepest of the Seven Hells. A woman who is with child has been chosen by the gods as their vessel, creating new souls under their command, and to end that life is a crime. _

Her frown deepens. Maegara reads this passage, again and again, attempting to make sense of it.  _ Any child born of incest will be marked as an abomination,  _ the holy book says, as well as  _ Every child that is born was given to us by the gods _ . How could the gods put a child into the world, only to have it marked in their eyes as an abomination? Surely, if incest was a sin in the eyes of the gods, then there would be no product from it? As a mark of their displeasure, in the least.

She is still thinking about it when the door opens and her father steps inside, dressed in his regal clothes of black and red cloth, with silver embroidery at its hem. He is wearing a feathered hat and bejeweled rings on each finger, looking every inch a king. As he looks at her, she feels even more pathetic in her dirty armor, the thing that she has been wearing for days nonstop. Her hair is dirty and matted on her head, her cheeks are burned from the cold wind coming in from the window. He looks her up and down, something lighting behind his eyes, and Maegara can feel the pity emanating from him.

One time, when she couldn’t be other than four, her mother took her to the painted table on the top floor of the Stone Drum in Dragonstone. They sat at the southern end of the map, her on her mother’s lap, their faces turned to the tiny carvings depicting the rivers of Greenblood, Wyl, and Torrentine and the scaled-down Red Mountains. Maegara remembers holding a carved wooden dragon in her hand as her mother explained to her about the Dornish Wars and why her aunt Rhaenys wasn’t alive anymore. Queen Visenya curled silver locks of Maegara’s hair around her index finger, whispering in her ear about conquest in the burning deserts.

“And so we retreated, my child, and made peace with the Dornish,” Mother said, their cheeks pressed together, “The country and our family couldn’t handle the war anymore. It was time to heal and forgive. Sometimes, to take two steps forward, it’s necessary to take one step backward.”

“Father,” Maegara whispers, getting to her knees, “Father, please, please, I beg you for your forgiveness!” She crawls to him, grabbing his coat, as he continues standing before her door, her freedom, “Please, I have never regretted anything more than my behavior in the courtyard. I shall never do it again, I swear it. My unfaltering shame is my constant companion now, alongside my self-hatred for having disappointed His Grace.”

She kisses the hem of his coat, pressing its soft fabric to her face as a show of submission before him. For the longest time, Father doesn’t say anything and Maegara fears that he sees what is inside her heart, that he knows her true motives for this humiliation. Suddenly, however, she feels his hand on her head, caressing her hair, and her entire body relaxes.

“All is forgiven,” he murmurs, “Rise up, child.” He bends forward ever so slightly, taking hold of her elbows as she slowly stands up to look at him. Father is still taller than her, and so she has to look up to meet his eyes, gentle dark purple eyes that look nothing like hers.

“His Grace is most merciful,” Maegara says, looking at him. Her eyes were dry, though, and he was looking straight at her, reading her expression. Try as she might, it was still difficult to summon tears without causing some form of discomfort in her body, and Father would notice any such attempt.

But he doesn’t say anything about her lack of visible remorse. He only touches her cheek and settles his hands on her shoulder, “There is still the matter of your punishment.”

Maegara hesitates on this. “My punishment, Father?” she asks, her voice showcasing all of her conflicting feelings, “I thought…” She looks around herself, at the chaotic destruction of her room, and thinks about how it had all been done by her. She put herself in this situation.

“Your behavior at the courtyard has shown me that your mother has grown lax in your education,” he murmurs, “Your mother has let you go about as if you were some simple lord’s spoiled daughter, doing as you wish. No longer. You are a princess of the realm and you will behave like one.”

“Father?” Maegara asks. For the first time in her life, she is frightened. Not for her safety, but for her comfort, and her desire to do things as she liked. Maegara looks at her father and wishes she had the power to read his thoughts, to see inside his head and know what he had planned for her. 

He smiles at her hesitation and touches her hair again, twisting a lock of silver around his index finger. Maegara suddenly has the urge to slap his hand away, and she fists her hands to stop herself.

"From this day forward, your training with Ser Gawen will be canceled. There shall be no more of this nonsense," says Father, "And you will spend your days with Septa Sylvia, learning how to be a proper lady. Sewing, household management, dancing, painting, singing are all things she will teach you, alongside praying and reverence for the gods."

"Of course, Father," Maegara says, having already expected this.

"You shall never be alone," her father continues, "Septa Sylvia will sleep on your chambers with you now and a knight of the Kingsguard shall escort you anywhere you wish to go on the castle grounds, but you must have my permission to leave them. There will be no excursions to the villages or for riding tours, do you understand?"

Maegara never left the castle for either reason, but he didn't need to know that, so she nods, "I understand, Father."

Her father smiles, pleased, and continues talking, looking around at her destroyed bedchamber, "And you shall be moved to the Sea Dragon Tower, where new rooms have been arranged. You shall stay there until these chambers are… sorted. I have sent for a seamstress from King's Landing who will make you new dresses within the week, so you may look the part of a Princess, as well as act it."

Maegara nods, thinking this all to be over, and attempts to smile at him. It comes out crooked and awkward because she can't truly feign happiness in sight of the King. Feeling like she has to do something to salvage this, she starts to say, "His Grace is most merci…"

But Father taps her cheek again, interrupting her, "And you shall have new companions. Girls of high-birth and close in age to you. The families have already been notified, so do not try and stop this. I fear loneliness could have been a factor in your rebellious nature and new friends shall surely improve your mood." He smiles at the end of his words as if that could make everything better.

Maegara wants to tell him not to send any ladies her way, that she isn't lonely and strangers invading her personal dominion certainly isn't going to help matters. She doesn't want any vapid Westerosi Lady near her person, droning on and on about proper behavior or court gossip. Mother never called the daughters of Crown lords to serve as her companions, because there was no need for it. Why couldn't he see that? Why was he so determined to do things contrary to what Mother had already done?

She has no power, though. Father knows that, which is why he has so many demands. Maybe, if she shows obedience and resignation now, he will loosen up on her punishment. Maybe these ladies will be here for just a few weeks, maybe half a year and once Father sees that she is once again the perfect daughter, he will send them home.

"I'm sure the ladies you have picked will be perfect, Father," she says, smiling.

Father smiles as well, a true smile this time, and steps forward. He takes her face into his hands and presses a kiss to her forehead, wet and long. Maegara shudders internally, twisting her fingers into her breeches to stop herself from stepping back from her father.

With a hand on her shoulder, he leads her to her new rooms in the Sea Dragon Tower. Two knights of the Kingsguard escort them, like jailers leading her to her new, fancier cell, and Maegara tries to tell herself it will not be so bad. Her mother's rooms are in the Sea Dragon Tower. Perhaps being close to them will make her feel like Queen Visenya is there with her, making every hurt feel like nothing at all.

Her new rooms are terrible, though.

The new bedchamber is larger than her previous one, and perhaps Maegara is meant to appreciate it. But she cannot keep herself from bristling at the sight of the oaken furniture from the Reach, carved with flowers and vines. Every chair and table, the vanity and the writing desk, the massive bed and the chests meant for her clothes are all carved and lacquered in the Reach style. 

Upon the walls are several tapestries depicting scenes of the Faith. Hugor of the Hill being presented with his wife by the Seven, the Crone giving Hugor the wisdom and guiding him to look westward. Scenes of the Andal Invasion, Artys Arryn overthrowing Robar Royce, the children of the forest being converted by septons. The Hightowers of Oldtown building the Starry Sept. All rendered in brilliant Myrish dye and almost offensive to the eyes.

And perhaps worst of all, a delicate gown of pink, painted with the soft color of peach, rests upon the silken Lyseni sheets of her new bed.

Maegara turns to her father, confused. She raises an eyebrow and he chuckles at the sight of her expression, shrugging.

"I brought these as gifts when I first came to Dragonstone, but Maester Orwyle told me you would not appreciate them," he explains, waving at the furniture, tapestries, and the dress, "Now, you will learn to."

She doesn't say anything. In fact, Maegara stays completely silent as he hands her off to four maids that were hiding in the corner, their faces perfectly neutral as they take in the sight of a disheveled princess. Her father leaves, commenting that Ser Addison Hill, the Bastard of Cornfield, will now be her personal guard.

The man, who has ashy blonde hair and dull blue eyes, nods at her, his face hidden by his silver helmet, "I will protect you with my life, Your Grace."

She knows he will. Maegara smiles softly at him and turns back to the maids. Her father and Ser Addison leave the room, with the knight's clinking armor dragging itself to be in front of the now-closed door.  _ He will be my shadow _ , Maegara thinks. Ser Addison had been chosen by her own mother for the Kingsguard and Queen Visenya because he was a stone in the form of a man, unwavering in his sense of loyalty and duty.

That's why Father chose him. Because Ser Addison will do as the King commands, no matter the weight of the order.

Her mind is pulled away by the maids beginning to work on her. She sees one of them filling an iron tub near the hearth with a bucket of steaming water, as the other three undress her. They unbuckle her padded armor and it's as if Maegara's skin sings, relieved of its weight and restrictions after four days. Her body is sore and bruised, with her skin covered in black, blue, and green spots all around.

She is hurting, but Maegara doesn't say anything as they help her into the tub. The water is pleasantly warm, and soothing to her tense muscles, relaxing her almost immediately. The maids rub her body with rough sponges, cleaning every corner and crevice of her. They don't say anything as they wash off the dried blood of her training with Ser Gawen or the dusty ash that settled on her after burning most of her dolls.

Soon enough, the water is gray and muddled, forcing them to change it slowly, as she still isn't completely clean.

One of the maids dunks a ladle into the water before spilling its contents onto her head, wetting her hair completely. She holds a brush in her hand and doesn't say anything as she brushes it, pulling the knots and tangles without mercy. Maegara clenches her jaw, holding the edge of the tub to stop herself from completely snapping and slapping her away.

For some reason, Maegara doesn't mind being naked in front of these strangers. Her old maids had stopped giving her baths when she was nine and she was always already with her shift and smallclothes when it came time for her to be dressed. Although it has been years, she feels strangely detached from it all, her mind far away from this room.

When she is finally clean, they help her out again. Maegara is pampered like a doll by these maids, being dressed in that  _ terrible  _ pink dress, made with a fabric so soft that it almost feels like water on her skin. They brush her hair again, drying it with a towel, and braid it, bounding it up in rings around her head. She remains quiet when they pin her hair with glittering diamonds matching the ones on her new necklace, earrings, and slim bracelets.

They want her to be someone she is not.  _ Father _ wants her to be someone she is not and she will let him think he has won. 

Aegon might have won the battle, but she will win the war.

* * *

It takes a fortnight for her new ladies to arrive in Dragonstone and she is not to meet one of them until they are all present, for some reason. Maybe her father wishes to prevent her from becoming too attached to the first arrival and practically ignore the last as if Maegara could ever do something like it; she intends to ignore all of them equally.

Maegara watches from her window as the carts and boats arrive over the days, fair and dark heads dipping under the arches of Dragonstone, looking at the castle with frowns of confusion. Were they expecting a glittering court, she wonders, or something beautiful, in the least, like the gardens of the Reach and the gold of the West?

This is Dragonstone. This is where her family came to escape the burning inferno of Valyria, where generations of Targaryens lived and died, where her father planned his conquest. Did they truly think the dragonlords would have a glittering southern court with pageantry and refinement? Maegara thinks they’re the greatest collection of fools if they did.

“Continue, Princess,” Septa Sylvia says, tapping her knee. As her brown eyes meet with Maegara’s purple, the sister returns to her embroidery wheel, pulling a light blue thread.

She sighs, moving her eyes away from the window and back to her book, a long and boring tome that describes the Andal conquest. Maegara gulps and returns to reading aloud, her voice unwavering over the details of King Tristifer IV Mudd’s hundredth and final battle, when seven Andal kings joined bands to defeat him and take his First Men kingdom of rivers by force.

Her boredom can’t be put into words. For hours, she has been with Septa Sylvia, who doesn’t stop demanding things of her, be it reading from ancient novels or singing old hymns of the gods. Only embroidery seems to be exempt from her strict demands, although Maegara knows it’s more because she is exceptionally good at sewing than her possibly forgetting it. 

“King Tristifer IV was succeeded by his son, Tristifer V. Tristifer V was not his father’s equal, however, and became the last of a lineage that had ruled the Trident for a thousand years. Afterward, his kingdom was divided between petty Andal kings, the most powerful of whom were the Teague and Justman dynasties,” she reads, leaning her head on her hand. Maegara sneaks a look at Septa Sylvia, who is humming lowly as she stitches a pattern in the form of the King’s Crown constellation.

_ Whore _ , Maegara thinks, unkindly. Septa Sylvia had once been loyal to her mother but didn’t hesitate to switch allegiances to the King, once he arrived. For that, Maegara would never forgive her.

She feels ridiculous in that situation.  The seamstress commissioned by her father had been working nonstop, sewing new dresses to replace the ones she had destroyed and it seemed a new disappointment was present to her every day. Gone were the dark grays, purples, and navies favored by Maegara, replaced with dull sky blues, light pinks, and vibrant reds. All the new dresses were very beautiful, she had to admit, but had been made for a girl that she wasn’t. A perfect Princess who obeyed her father’s requests without asking twice.

At that moment, as her last lady-in-waiting was settled into the castle, Maegara was wearing a gown of light blue silk, apparently, something that could bring out the color in her eyes, embroidered with golden thread and white lace. Her head had been bound up in a bun and held in with a rounded blue hood, attached to a hairnet of fine silver, covered with small blue topazes. She felt silly and beautiful. If her mother were to look upon her, Maegara wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t recognized.

When her brother had first seen her wearing one of her new dresses, he blushed, his mouth slightly open in surprise. Maegara had smiled at his reaction, especially when he stammered about how beautiful she looked, and felt that maybe this situation wouldn't be so unbearable after all. At least one good may come of it.

"May we study painting tomorrow, Septa?" asks Maegara, trying to keep her voice sweet and gentle, "I do want to improve my drawing skills."

Septa Sylvia smiles, pleased at this new change in her charge, "Of course, Princess."

Maegara smiles back and returns to her book, flipping the pages as she narrates the conquest of the Westerlands, and how a daughter of House Lannister married an Andal knight before ascending to the title of Queen of the Rock.  _ How boring _ , she thinks, not caring about the lions and their gold.

She reads even as she hears voices in the corridor, growing in volume and quantity quickly. The steps come closer and closer, making even Septa Sylvia drop her stitches and turn to the door.

"What could be the meaning of this?" she wonders, standing up. Septa Sylvia takes hold of her gray skirts and walks to the door at the same time it shoots open, her father walking in followed by a gaggle of ladies. Maegara's Septa falls into a curtsy, as does she, "Your Grace."

Maegara watches the newcomers slowly fill the room, standing behind her father, who has his arms open. He's wearing a thick brown coat and puffy red breeches as if he is trying to impress the women he had summoned. She doesn’t say anything as he walks to her, engulfing her in a hug that threatens to break her ribs. For just a second, she allows herself to be held by him, to be a daughter as well as a princess, but he steps back and the second ends.

"Here they are, my child," he says, pointing to the women behind him, “Your new companions, as promised.” Maegara looks at them, taking a sudden sense of pleasure at their bowed heads and complete submission in front of the princess. They are all standing around her, forming a semi-circle of highborn ladies. Father walks her in front of the closest one, waving around with his arm, “This is Lucinda Celtigar from Claw Isle. Her father and grandfather served in my smallcouncil, as you may recall from your history lessons.”

Lady Lucinda curtsies before Maegara, bowing her head. She is a maid of perhaps six and ten years, with light blonde hair, a color more like white than silver, and blue eyes. Her coloring seems to be the only extraordinary thing about her at first glance, as she was plain-faced, and chinless, with her quivering lips being a dull shade of pink. Her green and gold dress had flowers embroidered at the helm and sleeves, and she wore an emerald hood with a white laced veil attached at the back. She had emeralds glittering on her neck and golden earrings hanging from her ears.

The Celtigars were Valyrian like the Targaryens but had intermingled more with the Westerosi houses than Maegara’s family, something clear on Lucinda’s appearance. She was rich, it was obvious, but not at all beautiful or interesting. Maegara wondered why her father had asked Lucinda to come, as she didn’t seem to possess any of the qualities the princess looked for as a possible friend.

“Princess,” says Lucinda, “It’s an honor to be able to serve you.”

Maegara doesn’t say anything. She only turns slightly to her father, making her desire to continue with this farce as clear as day. He is still smiling, although the grin has now turned tight and forced on his face. He turns slightly, pointing to the girl next to Lucinda Celtigar.

“Tabitha Rosby from Rosby, near King’s Landing,” he says, “You met her father, Lord Oswell, at the celebrations of the twentieth anniversary of my reign. Don’t you remember?”

She did. As the King’s daughter, Maegara had a place of honor in all of the festivities, despite her young age, and was treated by everyone as the perfect princess she knew she was. One man even asked for her favor to wear at the tourney at the end of the Moon’s Turn and begged for forgiveness for disappointing her when he lost, three days later, to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Maegara sees that man’s face on Tabitha’s. She knows the Rosbys are not known for their robustness and that was translated to her slim build, with small hips and tight chest, but there is something otherworldly about her. Tabitha is certainly more beautiful than Lucinda, with her dark hair and eyes, but she is thin and tall, looking more like a fairy from Septa Sylvia’s stories than a lady. She wore a lovely dress of dark blue, with a high neckline and hanging sleeves, and expensive gems encrusted on her hair, like the stars shining in the night sky.

“How old are you, Lady Tabitha?” Maegara asks, trying not to frown.

Tabitha rises from her curtsy, placing her two hands before her. Maegara can see how pale and long her fingers were. She smiles, certainly pleased with the attention bestowed upon her by the princess.

“I’m five and ten, Your Grace,” she says. Her voice is high-pitched, with the low accent of the Crownlands making her sound surprised at all times.

_ Just two years older than me,  _ Maegara thinks, not understanding why she is surprised. Father choosing girls of an age with her makes sense and anyone else would have expected it. Anyone but her, it seems.

She nods, turning to the next girl. Father places a hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling inward as if he might try to hurt her, or pull her away from one of these ladies in case things get violent.

“Davia Darklyn from Dun Fort,” he murmurs, “Her uncle, Ser Robin from the Kingsguard, was most insistent on her coming here.”

Davia curtsies awkwardly as only a child could do. Maegara tries not to look shocked as she looks at the girl, who must be twelve-years-old at most, wondering why Father could think having her here would be suitable. She had large front teeth that continued to show even with her mouth closed, and a round face covered with freckles after hours spent playing under the sun. Her pink dress had almost no alterations in the name of fashion, with few gems stitched on the bodice and large skirts, that flowed around her like water.

Her light brown hair, a color that almost seemed red under the light, was bound up in two braided buns at each side of her face. Because of it, her head has the appearance of swollen and enlarged, not at all a look, one wishes to see in themselves. It’s clear that it wasn’t Davia Darklyn who chose the style of her hair, which makes her young age even more apparent.

“Your Grace,” Davia says, rising up on trembling knees. For just a moment, Maegara thinks it was cruel to have her here. A scared child with no knowledge of the world, serving under a strange princess on a strange island.

But the moment passes, as all things do, and she nods at the child, “Lady Davia.”

Maegara takes a deep breath and thinks about how there are only three more strangers to meet, telling herself to calm down. Meeting Lucinda, Tabitha and Davia was not as unbearable as she originally thought it would be. Perhaps she will become friendly with these new companions yet.

“Alys Harroway from Harrenhal,” Father announces and Maegara finds herself being more interested in this river girl. The Qoherys line had died out only a year before, with the unfortunate demise of Gargon the Guest. Although Septa Sylvia told her Lord Qoherys died from a burst belly, she suspected it had more to do with his penchant for attending weddings than his appetite.

And the Harroways of nearby Lord Harroway’s Town had been granted Harrenhal and its lands, rising to a higher lordship than they previously bosted. Father must have wished to show higher ties between the Iron Throne and the newly-created kingdom of the Riverlands, because otherwise why would he have called the daughter of a lord who wasn’t even his vassal like the Celtigars and Darklyns?

Alys Harroway was a girl of short stature and slim build. Next to Davia, she seemed like a giant, however, and more adult than what her surely four and ten years had her truly be. She had curly brown hair and brown eyes, with an insignificant face underneath it. Her yellow gown was richly embroidered with gold and silver threads and she wore a seven-pointed star pendant encrusted with diamonds that caught the light as she bowed. Laced veils hung from her pale wrists, equal to the white veil attached to a golden hood that covered her head.

There was nothing to draw the eye on her beyond her dress and ornaments, but Maegara stepped forward anyway, completely interested in her now. “Princess,” Lady Alys says, “This position comes not just as an honor for me and my family, but as an extreme pleasure to be able to serve you.”

Maegara smiles and it’s only her father’s insistent hand on her shoulder that keeps her from completely disregarding the other two ladies in the room. He turns slightly, pointing to another woman in the queue, and she sighs.

“Lady Ermesande Massey, the new head of your household, alongside Septa Sylvia,” Father says, pointing to an older woman. For the first time, Maegara notices the man behind Lady Ermesande, whom her father points to with his hand, “Her husband is our new master-at-arms, Ser Marq.”

Shocked, Maegara turns to him, “What about Ser Gawen?”

King Aegon’s displeasure becomes apparent on his face, with the twist of his lips and the frown on his forehead, “Ser Corbray has gone to King’s Landing to guard and serve Visenya. I have appointed Ser Marq Massey to Dragonstone’s master-at-arms. He is a good and loyal knight. And his wife is a pious woman who will make an excellent chaperone for you and your ladies.”

Maegara purses her lips, trying not to look how she feels at this news. She looks at Lady Ermesande once more. She is wearing a long green gown that covers her from neck to ankle and her gray hair, which once must have been as dark as her brows, is pulled into a tight bun. Her dress is embroidered with yellow flowers that grow from the hem and rise to her waist.

The man behind her is wearing a dark blue doublet and dark pants, with a sword hanging from his waist. He has brown hair, covered with grayish specks, and a smile that is meant to be seen as warm and fatherly, but only makes her want to slap him.

“I thought Ser Gawen was suitable for the role?” she asks, turning to her father.

Her father sighs, looking at the ladies before them. Maegara suddenly realizes that the news of her training with swords and her outburst at the courtyard has not been shared beyond the shores of Dragonstone. Maybe not even her mother knows, explaining her lack of letters in the past moon’s turn, and she doesn’t know what to think about that.

“Ser Gawen has crossed a line, but don’t worry, my love.” He pinches her cheek, “Ser Marq will do well as our master-at-arms.”

“I know a young maiden’s heart well, Your Grace,” says Ser Marq, “My Marq has given me four daughters. I have no doubt I’ll often see the little princess overlooking the yard and sighing at the knights training their squires.”

_ The little princess _ , Maegara decides that when she gets a dragon, Ser Marq will be the first person she feeds to it.

She looks at Lady Massey, who bows once more before her. The woman smiles warmly, “You can call me Erme, Your Grace. That’s what Ser Marq calls me.”

Maegara nods, “As you wish, Lady Massey.”

No one says anything for a long second. Maegara turns back to her father, who takes a deep and exasperated breath, and points to the last girl to be introduced. The princess looks at her new lady and almost takes a step back in shock.

The girl, or woman perhaps is the most appropriate word, had silky silver-gold hair and light purple eyes. Her skin was the loveliest shade of pale pink, like the foam of waves crashing into the rocky shores of Dragonstone. She had high cheekbones and was small, slim of waist and slight of frame. She was beautifully dressed in a sea-green dress, with pieces of silver embroidered around the bodice and long sleeves. Her curly hair cascaded behind her back, covered with a silver hairnet encrusted with diamonds

Maegara knows who she is even without her father announcing her name. She knows because she has already imagined that face a thousand times before, always followed by angry punches to her pillow because she couldn’t hurt its owner. The face of the woman who would try to steal everything that is hers

“And this is our cousin, Alyssa Velaryon,” Father says, “Her father and uncle are in my small council as Master of Ships and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, respectively.” 

Alyssa smiles as she bows, “Princess, what an honor to finally meet you.”

_ You’re not here to honor me _ , Maegara thinks, shaking with anger,  _ You’re here to steal what is rightfully mine. My husband, my inheritance, my crown. Mine! _

She wants to slap Alyssa, scratch her eyes and pull her hair. She wants to rub her face against the pointed rocks on the beach, seeing it bleed and bleed until she is no longer a threat, either because of her ruined beauty or because of her death. She wants to do so much, but Father’s hand is still on her shoulder and everyone is watching her.

Maegara smiles. “Cousin Alyssa,” she greets and looks around her, to the other ladies that now serve as her companions.  _ Only a queen to be has a lady-in-waiting, _ she thinks, savoring the small victory over Alyssa,  _ and she is here to serve me,  _ “My ladies, I’m certain that, by the next moon, we will be as close as sisters.”

She looks at Alyssa again and notices the low neckline of her dress, the Lyseni scent wafting off her body, and realizes that she isn’t here only to be a friend for her. She is here to ensnare the royal heir as well, probably under orders from her father, the traitor Aethan. Much like Maegara herself, Alyssa intends to charm Aenys into making her his queen.

_ Very well _ , Maegara thinks, wanting to laugh at the girl who knew nothing about her brother, even though she herself knew next to nothing about him either,  _ Let the hunt begin. _

* * *

Although Maegara had promised a sisterly bond with her new ladies, by the end of the moon, she found most of them to be incredibly annoying. They fluckered around her like frightened hens, scared of offending her, while swooning about her embroideries and clapping delightedly at her readings. Yes, yes, she is skillfully talented at needlework, but no, her voice doesn’t sound like a heavenly creature sent by the Seven. Their presence is a worse punishment than being locked in her room for four days.

Alyssa Velaryon treated her like a younger sister, perhaps hoping to befriend the younger sister of her intended into helping her with her nefarious plans. Her hidden role as planned by Father becomes clear over the passing days. Lady Alyssa was meant to be a role model for Maegara, someone with great piety and obedience for her to mirror and copy in. Instead of the Princess, however, it was Davia Darklyn who followed her around like a lost puppy, entranced by her grace and charisma. Alyssa enjoyed the attention, clearly, blushing prettily whenever Lady Massey or Septa Sylvia complimented her singing and her poems. Maegara hates her.

Lucinda Celtigar was hardly a better companion, with her shy and quivering voice. The girl was sixteen and as timid and meek as a child out of swaddling clothes. She followed after Alyssa like a sheep clinging to the side of her shepherd, and Maegara swore she would go mad listening to Lucinda bleat out prayers to the Seven as she tried to teach the princess the finer details of prayer and religious duties. Her parents had sent her to Dragonstone under the hope of her finding a suitable husband as a lady-in-waiting to the Princess, although Maegara thought the only man who would have her was the Father Above.

It seemed to her that the only ladies even remotely bearable were Tabitha Rosby and Alys Harroway, the latter in particular.

Tabitha was a girl of remarkable intelligence, Maegara had to admit. It seemed that she needed to look at a book only once to achieve complete understanding, able to discuss the author’s intentions and sub meanings with ease. She would excel at every other thing as well. Her singing voice sounded like a morning bird, dropping warm kisses on Maegara’s ears as a wake-up call. Her stitching was flawless and all of her dresses had been made by herself. Septa Sylvia would spend hours cooing at her details, droning on about how her own septa must have been absolutely  _ delighted  _ to have such a marvelous student. 

Maegara would hate her for this if it weren’t for her fantastical sense of humor, and wit. Tabitha had a tendency to curse loudly before giggling at the shocked and startled looks on the other girls’ faces, having the insane need to tease everyone around her. And she was a flirt. No one seemed to be able to escape her wanton eye, not even the serving maids, or Maegara herself.

Even Ser Addison was the victim at times. When Tabitha and Maegara were alone in Maegara’s antechamber after every other lady seemed to catch a fever, the knight stood by the wall, watching them with hawk eyes in his newfound role as a chaperone. Tabitha frowned, looking at him with confusion as Maegara tried to draw her father’s aquiline nose on a rather empty-looking canvas.

“Does he speak?” Tabitha asked, placing her embroidery wheel on her lap.

Maegara shrugged, “Sometimes.” 

“What does he talk about?”

“Duty. Honor. Boring things.” The Princess abandoned her attempt at painting, turning back to see her personal guard.

Tabitha smirked then, her pouty lower lip curving slightly, “He can talk to me about honor anytime he so desires.”

Ser Addison didn’t answer, but Maegara could swear she saw him shake his head, muttering something about children. The next day, once Septa Sylvia recovered, Tabitha received a tongue-lashing from her about respecting older men and keeping one’s self away from wantonness or sin. Although Tabitha murmured her apologies to Ser Addison and promised to never do it again to anyone else, the glint on her eye told Maegara otherwise.

And Alys Harroway.

The girl was just one year younger than Maegara, a little over twelve, and totally unremarkable in everything obvious. She was not the most beautiful, nor the most talented. Her connections would never provide her with an incredible marriage and was likely to have remained completely forgotten to history, had she not been called to serve as lady-in-waiting to the princess and the future queen, and perhaps, because of this, Maegara is her saving grace.

Alys Harroway is, of the ladies chosen by her father, closest in age with her. She is dutiful and pious, but, unlike Lucinda Celtigar, these traits don’t make her appear boring or dull. There is some eagerness to please and to assist in her, and she is devotedly loyal to the royal family and the crown. Alys is not an empty-headed flatterer, and she respects Maegara more than the other five ladies combined. Her family had gained much power because of the King and her gratitude was clear in all of her actions. When Maegara would start a conversation, Alys would listen, nodding at her positive words, and frowning at the negative stories.

She is a true friend, the first of such Maegara has had since her mother left Dragonstone.

And it’s because of this that, only a moon’s turn after her arrival, Alys Harroway replaces Septa Sylvia in being the princess’ bedmaid. Only when they are in bed, under the covers, can they speak in private, without any sycophant servant listening in before running off to tell her father. But it takes more than a moon’s turn, almost two, before Maegara will tell Alys the truth.

They are laying in bed, heads resting upon feathered pillows and looking at each other. Alys is telling Maegara some story about her two younger sisters, Jeyne and Hanna, when the courage comes to her, pulsing inside of her chest like a second heart. She opens her mouth, interrupting the story, and says, “I’m going to marry my brother.”

Instead of reacting like Maegara had imagined, with wide eyes and screams of sin and disgust, Alys merely raises her eyebrows, shocked. She opens and closes her mouth, the words coming and going as they do, before finally saying, “Really?”

Maegara nods, “But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I would never betray your trust, Princess,” says Alys with a smile. She leans forward on the bed, her face so close that her warm breath hits Maegara’s lips, “But why?”

“Because my father doesn’t want me to,” she answers, “And if he learns this is my desire, he will lock me in my room again.”

Alys frowns, “How can you marry your brother without his permission?”

“He loves Aenys too much,” Maegara murmurs, “If Aenys wants to marry me, Father will not be able to say no.”

Alys nods, a pensive expression on. Maegara bites her lower lip in anticipation. She is so nervous and she doesn’t even know why. Surely if Alys intended on telling her father, she would have done so already, no? Or could she be trying to gather more and more information before telling the King, setting a trap for her?

No. Alys would never do such a thing.

“So you will seduce your brother?” Alys asks, frowning.

“I will charm him,” Maegara says, sticking out her tongue, “I have no intention of giving him my maidenhead before we are wed.”

“Of course,” Alys says. She bites her lower lip, leaning forward even more, and smiles, “I shall help you.”

Maegara feels her eyes widen, “Really?”

Alys nods, “Yes.”

Maegara smiles, happy for the first time in a long time, and places her hand over Alys’, interlacing their fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

She is cold.

Her entire body trembles, shivering. She is only wearing a thin nightgown and her feet are bare, planted on the cold stone ground. Maegara wraps her arms around herself, trying to keep herself warm, and sighs deeply, watching her breath come out of her mouth in white puffs of air. Her head feels heavy, for some reason, and she looks around, trying to understand where she is.

Maegara is in a cavernous chamber, walls high and made of pale red stones. A hundred dragon skulls hang above her, their black teeth as sharp as a sword, and she frowns, stepping forward.  _ Where am I?,  _ she thinks, as the skulls stare at her, their eye-holes turned down, almost respectfully downcasted. Her arms drop as she walks, and a warmth envelops her, as if her entire body is burning, her blood boiling.

The Iron Throne is before her, sitting on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. It was cold and hard, an asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges. It had been made of twisted metal from the swords of the defeated enemies of King Aegon, melted down by the breath of Balerion the Black Dread. She recognizes it immediately, as, although she has not seen him many times in her life, her mother never let her forget her son’s future seat.  _ You will be Queen,  _ Visenya would tell her, and Mother never lied.

She continues walking, feet hitting the soft Myrish carpet laid on the ground. As she walks, the darkened wintery air lifts, with the torches lighting by her side and the summer sun streaming inside from the high, narrow windows. Maegara stops shivering and her eyes are drawn to the people around her, a thousand people, tall and short, fat and thin. Men and women. Whenever she passes them, they kneel, their foreheads leaning against the stone floor. 

As she looks and walks past them, she notices that some have silver hair and violet eyes. They wear black and red, with a three-head dragon embroidered on their clothes. Targaryens. Some wear crowns, men and women, alike. Simple circlets or elaborate diadems, or even, in some cases, the valyrian steel coronet of her father. They are kings, she realizes, and the women beside them are their queens, girls and ladies of silver hair and purple eyes like their husbands. Behind their parents, she sees children of valyrian appearance, smiling proudly at her.

But the Targaryens aren’t the only ones there. She sees dornish warriors, hitting their chests in unison on a strange rhythmic beating and offering her their spears, poison dripping from the blades. She sees proud Arryns, kneeling before her. She sees Blackwoods and Brackens, boys and girls with brown hair and eyes. She sees the Velaryon seahorse, the tower of Oldtown, and the crossed quills of the Penroses. She sees a man with a brown weathered face and large dark almond-shaped eyes. She sees the banner of a black three-headed dragon on a red field, and she thinks about family branches. The quartered yellow sun and white crescent of the Tarths is held by a magnificent woman, tall and strong with short blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes.

At the end of the line, before the Iron Throne, Maegara sees three Baratheons, brothers, who are tall and strong. Besides them, there is a tall and lean boy with the Stark hair and eye, wearing Targaryen colors, a sword hanging by his waist. They kneel for her as well, but they shout something, one word that rises from the entire crowd.

_ Muña. Muña. Muña.  _ The voices of all of the presents mix together, an array of different accents and tongues, all screaming the same thing.  _ Muña. Muña. Muña. Muña. _ Maegara has difficulties with High Valyrian, but she understands this word, the first word she ever learned in her entire life. The most important word of them all.

Mother, they shout. Mother Mother. Our mother.

Aenys steps forward. He is standing on the first step that leads to the throne and her brother offers her his hand. He wears an embroidered black doublet, with the Targaryen three-head dragon over his heart and silver buttons, and expensive silk pants. Over his silver hair, there was an ornate golden crown, inlaid with jade and pearl. He was smiling and beside him, there was another person. A strong boy, tall and proud and powerful, who offers her a hand as well. He had Aenys’ lilac eyes, nose, and the heart-shaped full mouth shared by the siblings, but there is something familiar about him. He has a long aquiline nose and the sharpness of a chin that remembers Maegara of herself. How could it be, she wonders? How could this boy-man be Aegon the Dragon reborn?

She takes both of their hands and feels her heart race as she notices the red sleeves of her dress, narrow and embroidered heavily with golden and black threads. Was she not wearing a nightgown? For some reason, Maegara can’t recall it. 

Aenys and the man help her up the steps of the Iron Throne, where a couple awaits her.

The man was tall and fair, with golden hair and eyes as pale as lilac. The maid beside him was delicate with hair like white gold and eyes as soft as lavender. They wore clothes she couldn’t understand, silk hanging from pins in their arms and valyrian steel crossing their bellies like armor. The sides of their heads were shaved, but the surviving hair had been braided intrinsically, covered with jewelry.

Maegara turns her back to them as the man wraps a Targaryen cloak about her shoulders, fixing Dark Sister on her hip, and she sits on the throne, laying her arms over the jagged edges. A King should never sit easy, she once overheard her father telling Aenys, but what about a Queen?

The Dreamer places Aegon’s valyrian steel crown on her head, as the Glorious shouts, “Bōsa glaesagon se Dāria Zaldrīzoti!”

“Long live the Dragon Queen!” the crowd responds, “Long live the Dragon Queen!”

Maegara wakes up on her bed in the Sea Dragon Tower, with Alys Harroway snoring softly beside her. Her heart is racing on her chest, beating so rapidly that she’s half afraid that it will slip out from in between her ribs. A thin layer of sweat covers her body, something that could be explained by the heavy covers around her, and she’s shaking.

Her dream was most strange, although not memorable. Even now, at just seconds after waking up, she has difficulty recollecting even the basic plot of it. Aenys was there, and the Iron Throne, but where were they? It couldn’t be the Aegonfort. When they had visited King’s Landing for the twentieth celebration of her father’s reign, the seat of House Targaryen was made of wood and earth, not the pink stone of her imagination.

Maegara presses a hand to her forehead. She thinks about a dream she had as a child, where a dragon tried to eat her and only stopped once she slapped him in the nose with a sword. That dream hardly makes sense now, though it had been made by her mind just as this one. Or was it the gods who sent her these images? Who could know for certain?

Alys Harroway shifts beside her, yawning. She rubs at her eyes as she wakes up, stretching her body so forcibly that her back pops. Her brown hair is wild, sticking in every direction in matted and knotted tresses. Her eyes are red and swollen. Alys sits up, looking around the room as if trying to center herself and remember where she is. Was Dragonstone much different than Harrenhal? For some reason, she doesn’t think so, especially in regards to the sleeping arrangements. Certainly, as the daughter of the ruling lord, she had grander rooms in her father’s seat than here, but neither castle had been built with beauty and elegance in mind.

“Good morning, Princess,” says Alys, “Did you sleep well?”

Maegara nods, “Yes, very well.” She kicks her covers away, leaving her bed in quick strides, “And you?”

Her room is cold, and the wind that comes from her windows cause the curtains and tapestry to swish around, flapping against the stone walls. Maegara can taste the salt air, born from the Dragonstone sea, and feel the waves calling to her, hitting the rocky shores of her mother’s island. She looks at Alys, who is leaving the bed as well, and takes a deep breath.

“Not as much,” she answers, “I spent the entire night mostly thinking about what you told me.”

“What did I tell you?” Maegara frowns. Understanding comes to her in waves, crashing over her mind, “Oh, yes. Of course.”

About her brother. About how she wishes to marry Aenys and be his Queen. Alys had promised to help her, but Maegara didn’t think she would stay awake just to plot something about it.

“What ideas did you have?” she asks her friend, sitting down on the bed.

Alys presses her hands against her hair, trying to fix it. She pushes some of her brown curls behind her small ears. She is quite beautiful, with a tiny nose and full lips, but her face is covered in brown freckles after an entire life spent under the burning sun of the Riverlands. Her hair is a shade of brown that can be easily found in other women, and her eyes are much of the same. Alys is certainly common-looking enough to not shine amongst Maegara’s other ladies, but her fine connections will find her a husband easily.

“Well, it’s clear to me that you must stay alone with him, the question is where and how,” says Alys, “It’s hard to seduce someone with Septa Sylvia hanging over your shoulder.”

Maegara chuckles, her shoulders shaking. Alys Harroway is such a breath of fresh air in her life. It’s very good to finally have a true friend with her, especially after her mother and Ser Gawen left Dragonstone for King’s Landing. 

“Yes, you are right,” she says, “But Father will never let me be alone with Aenys. It’s why I have Ser Addison with me at all times. To watch me. Father knows I want to marry Aenys, and he will try and stop me.”

Alys frowns, “I still don’t understand that. The king is your mother’s brother, is he not? And the valyrians married siblings to keep bloodlines pure. Why wouldn’t he want you to be Aenys’ bride?”

“Because he hates my mother and me,” Maegara explains, “He married my mother for duty, not desire, and he will never forgive her for that. For surviving while my aunt Rhaenys died in Dorne.” She shakes her head, “Father wants Aenys to wed Alyssa Velaryon while I will be bound to her brother, Ser Daemon. It’s why she is here, you see. To take Aenys for herself.”

Alys curls her nose, offense clear on her face. She looks younger than her twelve years when she does that, more like Davia Darklyn than Tabitha Rosby.

“She’s a traitor then,” says Alys, “She came here, supposedly to serve you, but actually intending to steal your rightful husband. How could she do this?”

Maegara shrugs, “I’m sure either my father or hers have been instructing her on how to do it.” Her cousin, the traitor Aethan, would certainly love to have her seduce the crown prince and make herself a queen. With her father agreeing to have Alyssa be unofficially betrothed to Aenys, there would certainly be no hesitancy in the Lord of Driftmark in regards to whoring his daughter out.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Alys, “You are his daughter and Aenys’ sister. Tradition dictates that you be wed to him. He is betraying you as if you are not worthy of his son.”

“Yes,” Maegara says, taking Alys’ hand. She doesn’t want to talk about this subject anymore, “You are right. Alyssa is a traitor.”

They continue talking for the rest of the early morning, making plans for Aenys to fall in love with Maegara. They talk even when the maids come to dress and prepare them for their day, using words to make her father’s spies think they are speaking of a play, or a boy that  _ Alys  _ is fancying, instead of the Princess’. An urge to giggle almost overtakes Maegara more than once, as her maids brush her hair until it shines like beaten silver, and exchanging looks with Alys Harroway does not help.

In the end, it is decided: Alys will find ways to get Aenys and Maegara alone together, as often as possible. She can’t be charming when her father or the other ladies are present, as they may come to hindrances in her plan. If Alys finds herself near the prince, she is either to speak positively about the Princess, or negatively about Alyssa Velaryon. Somehow, Maegara will need to present herself as the only possible bride for her brother, the only woman he could ever have. His true love and his perfect match.

That will be the most difficult part of it, in Maegara’s opinion. How can she make herself be attractive to her brother without gathering her father’s attention? Aenys enjoys riding and music, things she is not fond of, but has no apparent interest in her own pursuits of reading and swordplay. Perhaps, she would have an easier time if she asked her brother to teach her how to ride, or to play something for her, but she doesn’t want the latter and her father would probably prohibit the former.

And so, she and Alys set out together for Aegon’s Gardens in Dragonstone. Because of her good behavior, Father has given her a weekly free morning where she can pursue her own interests and have a respite from the strict lessons instructed by him. Despite these words of reassurance, Maegara is more willing to believe this is a test, as Father is just waiting to see her fail so he will be reassured of his mistrust in her.

Septa Sylvia advised her to use her resting hours for prayer and solitude, but she would rather take advantage of the time given for her own purposes. What use is prayer for her immortal soul when she is meant to be her brother’s wife, his companion, and the mother of his children? The gods made her a woman with a clear purpose. Prayer will not help her at all, with Alyssa Velaryon living in Dragonstone, intending to steal her perfect husband. charming her brother and causing him to want her as his wife. even if it would damn her soul to the deepest of the Seven Hells. There are horrors to suffer in this life as well and she would rather suffer as a Queen than as the lowly Lady of Driftmark.

She intertwines her arm with Alys’ as they walk through the corridors, Ser Addison striding behind them as an eternal white shadow. He seems to have become more and more withdrawn after Tabitha flirted with him shamelessly as if trying to be invisible to the young ladies of his charge’s court. Maegara almost pitied him, as it was easy to forget that he was loyal to her father and watched her like a hawk just to relay all of her misbehavior back to the King.

Ser Addison was not a fun person, however, and she was quickly reminded of the reason for him following her around. He was her jailer, not her friend.

As they walk, her skirts move with her steps. Her farthingale holds up the voluminous fabric, giving her a fashionable figure. Although the structure was forceful on her hips, hanging low on her waist, it’s much easier to march around, as the complexity of it prevented the need for more fabric to bunch up her form. Maegara wears a dress of white and blue cotton, the skirts stiffened with esparto grass and whalebone. Her sleeves are long and heavily embroidered, with veils made of white lace attached to the cuffs, and there are pears stitched on her bodice, catching the light as she moves. Her hair has been braided and bound up in rings in the same style as her mother’s, covered with a rounded hood of pearls and silver. She has foregone the usual dark veil attached, as her intricate hairstyle deserves its shining moment. Maegara is wearing amethyst earrings, however, and a silver ring that Lord Celtigar had given to her for her tenth nameday on her index finger.

She looks like a queen. A silver queen.

Alys is wearing a dark green dress, embroidered with gold. On her head, she has one of the fashionable new lyseni hoods, or gable hood, brought to court by the visiting ambassadors of the Free Cities and their wives. The hood was a complex construction with lappets and one side of the dark veil pinned up, showcasing her upper back and neck. Her skin there was white, unblemished by freckles, unlike her face.

They walked under the arch of the Dragon’s Tail, leading themselves down to Aegon’s Gardens. Under her mother’s rule, the gardens had been tended on a daily basis, with over ten gardeners employed to watch her beloved rose shrubs and wildflowers. Aegon's Garden had a pleasant piney smell to it, and tall dark trees rose on every side. There were towering thorny hedges as well, and a boggy spot where cranberries grew. There are even two or three apple trees there, with the fruits hanging lowly on their branches, threatening to topple over.

“It’s so nice to be alone with you,” Maegara murmurs, “Alyssa and Lucinda are so bothersome.”

“Yes,” agrees Alys, “Alyssa is very arrogant, I think. She tries to act like an older sister, and doesn’t defer to you as ought to be given your difference in rank.”

Maegara had given Alys permission to call her by her given name, foregoing the ceremony of using Your Grace as often as one might need. It was a sign of her favor, bestowed upon the lady in her small court that she liked the most. Alyssa Velaryon, who had wished to integrate herself closely to the royal family in order to marry Aenys, would never even see the crumbs of such an honor, that Maegara would be sure of.

“She is so boring,” Maegara murmurs, making a face, “Oh, Lady Alys, would you like me to help you with your embroidery? I’m afraid you are awfully dreadful at it.”

Alys laughs, throwing her head back. She doesn’t have a good laugh, snorting while her face flushed red, but it’s good to hear it anyway.

Her friend steps back, bending her body in a mock curtsy, “Oh, Princess Maegara, it’s such an honor to be in your illuminating presence. Please, let me show you how well I can sing.”

“No,” Maegara says, looking up, “I don’t think anyone has asked you to sing, Lady Alyssa.”

“Oh, but, Princess, I insist,” says Alys, before standing up on her tiptoes, as although Alyssa was a short woman, she was still taller than the daughter of the Lord of Harrenhal. Alys cleans her throat audibly, before beginning to bellow, in an awfully loud voice, “The Father's face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong! He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children!”

“The little children!” Maegara screams, trying to sing as well, “The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife! Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children!”

“The little children!” shouts Alys, “The little children!”

They laugh as they continue their mock-song, their bellies rolling from so much glee. Maegara takes Alys’ other hand and they spin around the garden, giggling and singing about the Seven who are One and their little children. “The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover's sigh,” they sing together, “Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and gives dreams to little children!”

They spin and spin, the world disappearing altogether as they hold the other’s hand tightly. Maegara thinks she has never laughed this much in her entire life and how terrible it is that she has to thank her father for bringing Lady Alys Harroway into her household.

“Princess,” says Alys suddenly, dropping into a curtsy. Maegara trembles on her feet as she stops, dizzy, “One must be careful. One must never mock, or tease, as that is the work of the Lord of the Seven Hells and the Stranger. One must keep oneself away from such sins.”

“Oh, Septa Sylvia,” murmurs Maegara, throwing a hand to her forehead, “How boring life must be for you to believe such things. Without my sword, mocking others is the only way I can find joy in my life!”

Alys laughs heartily, spinning around Maegara. She had a round face and big cheeks that made her look more like a babe in arms than an almost woman. Her eyes, a color of soft amber lighter than her hair, seemed to glint as they walk through the gardens.

They are laughing so much that they don’t hear the approaching steps until the person is right in front of them, hands behind his back and a quizzical expression on his handsome face. Maegara stops giggling as she looks at her brother, who has his lips curved into a smirk as if he is trying to stifle his laughter. Alys immediately stops and flushes when she realizes who it is, dropping into a semi-curtsy.

“Good morning, my ladies,” says Aenys. He is wearing a large fur coat that makes him look more muscular and bigger than he truly is, with tight red pants and a red feathered hat. He has a golden chain around his neck, with the three-headed dragon carved in the middle, “I trust the day has been agreeable to you so far.”

“Oh, Your Grace,” Alys starts. The two girls share an anxious look, as they don’t know how much Aenys had heard. What would he think about the things they were saying about Lady Alyssa and Septa Sylvia, “The Princess and I were merely…”

“Laughing,” Maegara says, interrupting her friend, lest she says something incriminating. Her brother turns to her as she speaks, his eyes attentive and kind on her, “Lady Alys was just telling me a funny story from her homeland, the Riverlands.”

“Really?” Aenys asks, “May I hear what it is that made my sister laugh as such?”

“Oh.” Pink blossoms in Alys’ cheeks once again, and she chews her inner cheek. Most likely, she is trying to remember a story that could justify how much they were laughing, and visibly failing, “Your Grace, it’s…”

“You wouldn’t understand it, brother,” Maegara says, stepping forward, “The story is only funny for a selected group of people.”

Aenys frowns, “A group of people I am not part of, am I correct?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Maegara shakes her head, hoping to trap him, “Only my closest companions can hear the story and understand it properly.”

“I’m your brother,” he says.

“But not my close companion,” she retorts, looking right into his eyes, “I’m afraid I am very selective with whom I keep near to my person.”

“Really?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow. He is not offended, or even angry by her remarks, Maegara can see, though he wasn’t intrigued by them as well. Her brother is curious, only, perhaps either to the people in her close circle or to the standards that had to be met before one was admitted.

However, she can sense that there is something different in him. He seems more confident, more at ease with himself, and she looks at his person, trying to see what could have changed him so. It thus comes as a shock to her to note that he is wearing his riding boots, and his riding gloves are stuffed inside his pocket.

“Yes,” she answers, raising her eyes back to his, “It’s very private and very exclusive.” She gestures to his clothes, “But tell me, dear brother, were you riding?”

“I was walking to the stables when I heard you two, and I had to come to see what was that made you so happy.” He smiles, “For I have never seen you laugh like that.”

“Oh,” says Maegara, “Well, then.” She turns back to Alys, and link their arms together, “Don’t let us keep you busy, brother. I know how much you enjoy… riding.” She smiles innocently as she finishes speaking, almost as if her tone and words have no lewd intention underneath.

Aenys blushes furiously, averting his eyes, “Yes, quite.”

Maegara and Alys share a look, trying not to laugh out loud over the situation that is happening. Alys’ face is turning a shiny shade of red, almost like a tomato, and that makes it even harder not to erupt into a fit of giggles. They avert their eyes from each other, lest they actually bring attention to themselves by laughing.

“Come, Alys,” says Maegara, “I’m feeling myself becoming quite hungry. I think we might convince some kitchen maid to serve us if we move quickly.”

Alys nods, pressing a hand to her rumbling stomach as if noticing for the first time her own hunger. Maegara turns to her brother and curtsies for him. Aenys bows his head respectfully as an answer as if she is his equal, and she feels herself flushing with pride.

“Goodbye, Aenys,” she murmurs, unable to keep the smile away from her face and already moving herself to walk away, “We’ll see you later.”

He doesn’t respond, even when Alys says her departings, curtsying lowly. Maegara leads herself to the side from which she came to Aegon’s Gardens, her arm intertwined with Alys’. They step away, with Ser Addison taking his place as her personal guard.

When Maegara turns back to see her brother one last time, she sees that Aenys is still there, looking at her.

* * *

“Sweetheart, are you listening to me?” her father asks.

Maegara raises her head, turning her eyes away from her papers and to the King, who is standing before her desk. She feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment at the realization that no, she wasn’t listening to him, so distracted with her translations that she was. He notices it too, how could he not, and presses his lips together. Father looks around them, closing the High Valyrian book on his hand as he taps his fingers against the leather covering. 

“No, Father,” she answers, “Forgive me. What were you saying?”

He smiles, lightly, but his face is still tense. His features are pulled taut over his bones, strained, like a piece of clothing too small for the body in which it’s put on. He seems stressed, or maybe overwhelmed, and a sense of filial worry fills her, causing her to think about what could have happened to him.

"Nothing important," he says, "I was merely thinking aloud about how your fourteenth nameday is less than three moon's turns away."

"Oh," Maegara whispers, placing her hands on her lap.

She is surprised by him. If she had to be honest, Maegara would say that she thought her father didn’t even know the date of her nameday. He never came during the celebrations organized by Mother, not even once. As a young child, this hurt her, but after growing a little, Maegara realized that it didn’t matter because her mother would always compensate for his lack of affection towards his only daughter.

For many years, her namedays were the reason behind sumptuous feasts and celebrations, but, when she was around eight, Mother realized that she preferred to have more intimate gatherings. Since then, she would celebrate usually by breaking her fast privately with her mother, and then they’d do something together, like hunt around the island or travel the Dragonstone sea with one of their boats. Mother would always give her gifts at the end of the day, as well as give any other that might have found its way to Dragonstone.

Father rarely sent her presents, and never appeared at the day, so she doesn’t know what to expect from him now. She doesn’t even know how he celebrates Aenys’ namedays, although she can imagine they are endless and magnificent, as befitting the heir of the Seven Kingdoms. 

It’s strange. Her life has always been like this, but still. It's strange and awkward. To be part of a broken family, separated in two. Father and Aenys in King’s Landing, her and Mother here in Dragonstone. Will it always be like this? She imagines that when she weds Aenys, they will remain with one parent, either in the capital or on the island. One will live with them and the other will keep away from their spouse, as they can barely stand each other. When the children come, this separation will become even more clear, as they shall know one grandparent, but not the other. Maegara would rather stay in Dragonstone with her mother, though Aenys will have his own opinions. He will be the husband and he shall make the decision. She can’t imagine he would choose his aunt over his father. 

“What sort of celebration would you like, my dear?” Father asks, pulling a chair for himself.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Father,” she says, “Mother and I have always done private things together, but with the whole court here…”

“Things will be different, I’m sure,” he answers, smiling softly, “Depending on the festivities planned, we may even invite your mother. I’m sure she is very busy overseeing the construction of my new seat, but she will surely come for her daughter’s nameday.”

“Of course,” Maegara whispers, smiling as well. Her mouth itches from it, “Perhaps a masquerade? Or a ball.”

Father frowns, setting his book back on the desk. Their High Valyrian lesson is forgotten now, their focus turned back to Maegara’s upcoming nameday. 

“Why a ball?”

“Oh.” She shrugs, “I’ve never been to one, and I thought it could be fun. We can invite just the crown lords, to save money, if it pleases His Grace.” He nods, taking his ringed fingers to his chin, where he taps two of his digits as he thinks, “And it will be my coming out, will it not? A celebration to show that I am of marriageable age.”

“Technically, yes. You can now be betrothed,” the King says, shaking his head, “But you are still so young and I want to be certain that I have found your perfect husband before I make any major decision.”

She knows she is not supposed to say it, but the words leave her lips before she can stop herself. The impulse is too great to kill, “I have already found the perfect husband for myself, Father.” He tilts his head, confused, “My brother."

"Maegara, I believe we have already discussed this," he murmurs. His voice is hard, almost like a warning.

"Well, I don't believe the matter is closed," she answers, "Why are you so hesitant on this subject?"

"I'm hesitant because things are not always set in stone, and aren't always as easy as you think they are," he answers, "To be a king is to keep everyone happy, to keep the whole country from killing each other. If you marry Aenys, there will be much unrest with the faithful."

"The faithful may hang, for all I care," she answers, "We have dragons. What can they do?"

He frowns at her, "Yes.  _ I _ have a dragon. And so have Aenys and your mother. But you, as I recall, are not a dragonrider. So what about then, Maegara? Are we to fix the problems you create?"

Maegara blinks. It's so easy, fighting with him. Like a second nature to herself. She tightens her hands into fists, feeling her entire body shake with the weight of her anger. Why must he be like this? Why must he be so difficult?

"I didn't mean that," she says, "I just wonder."

He sighs, "What do you wonder?"

"Why do you care for everyone's happiness, except my own?" The words leave her lips without her intending to. She didn't even know this is what she would say until she did it. Maegara sighs, pressing fingers to her temple and forehead in an attempt to abate the oncoming headache.

"That's not true," Father says, "I care for your happiness. You're my daughter. How could I not?"

"Then explain to me, how could you go five years without visiting me? Without sending me letters? Or gifts for my nameday?" She bites her inner cheek, but the tears come anyway, burning her eyelids. Maegara blushes furiously. She is embarrassed for truly crying before her father, without intending, or wanting to. She tightens her hands even more, until her knuckles turn white, "How is that fatherly?"

The anger washes away from her father's face. Suddenly, his expression turns remorseful and he stands up, arms open in her direction. "Oh, sweet girl," he says as he helps her stand up, "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." He pulls her into a hug, tightly pressing her to his chest, "It's not your fault, I swear it. It's my own."

Maegara tries not to cry even more, but her shoulders shake as the tears slide down her cheeks. She wraps her arms around his waist, accepting his hug because it's been so long since she was last embraced. So, so long. She can't even remember it, although she imagines it was with her mother, before the Queen left, almost a year before.

When they part, he cleans her cheeks, stroking her face with his hands. His touch is soft and loving, things she has longed for from him since her early childhood.

"Things have not always been easy between your mother and me," he murmurs, "I'm afraid marriage has ruined our once close kinship, my child. Your aunt, Rhaenys, used to say that we were too alike, so that's why we argued often." Father shakes his head, "Things have become worse after she died. We did something that may have caused a permanent rift in our already troubled marriage, and it’s hard. Dealing with her.”

Maegara wonders what it is that her parents did, perhaps something in Dorne, but she knows that now is not the moment for her to ask her father about it. If he wants her to know, he will tell her, eventually.

“I know it's not your fault," he continues, unaware of her inner thoughts, "But you look too much like her. Not your looks, which you have inherited from me, but your personality. I can't look at you without seeing your mother and be reminded of what we did."

Maegara remembers her outburst in the courtyard and Father pulling her into her rooms, throwing her on the floor.  _ Did he do all of this because he couldn't do the same to my mother? _

"I can't change, Father," she says, stepping away from his hug, "I know you want me to be someone I'm not, but I can't. It's not possible. No matter how many ladies you summon, how many hours I have to spend with Septa Sylvia. I will not be her. I will never be Rhaenys."

He looks at their feet, which are together, pointing at each other, and sighs, "I know, I know." He rubs her shoulders, trying to smile, but it’s taut and strained on his face. His cheeks and eyes are red as if he is going to cry, "I always wished for you to be like her but a part of me knew how impossible it would be. You are Visenya's daughter, not Rhaenys'." Father shakes his head and traces a white scar on her cheek with his thumb, "But when I saw you in the courtyard with a cut on your face, all I could think about was the eight-year-old little girl that was my memory of you for years. When we saw each other on the port after your arrival, you jumped into my arms and giggled about a drawing you had made for me. At the tourney, you wanted to give me your favor, a little red ribbon, to wear and you pouted so much when I told you I did not joust." He laughs, but the sound is wrong, almost like a cry, "Seeing that you had grown up was difficult, as was knowing that I had missed it all because of my own foolishness."

“Things will never be easy between us, will they?” she asks and he shakes his head, "I know I haven’t been the most obedient daughter, but I just can’t stop feeling like you hate me. You may deny it, but that is how you act, and how I feel. And I know that you probably wish that I would back down from marrying Aenys, but I have been training my entire life for queenship. It’s my destiny, and I will not let anyone, not even you, take it from me.”

Father smiles, pinching her cheek lightly, “Destiny is not a real thing, Maegara. It’s just a lie people tell themselves to justify their actions and their wars.”

* * *

“Heavenly Seven who are above, I beg of you for guidance and wisdom to continue treading through the path set to me,” Maegara whispers, low enough to stop any of the others still at prayer from listening to her, “Give me the strength to continue doing what must be done. Enlighten my brother’s heart to be kind and loving towards me, as he is the husband chosen for me. The minds of lesser men can never understand the bonds between siblings of Valyrian blood. Who created the Valyrians if not the gods, who gave them the dragons and the weapons to conquer the world? Only a dragon’s womb can bear an egg, and I understand it now. Your will is so clear and it shall be done, no matter what.” She raises her head, looking at the seven statues around her. The sept at Dragonstone had been erected by her father after he was finished with his conquests and wooden statues of the Seven were erected there for the pious to pray to. It was said that they had been carved from the masts of the ships that had carried the first Targaryens from Valyria, but Maegara doubts it sincerely. The statue of the Crone has pearl eyes, the Father a gilded beard, and the Stranger looks more animal than human, but it was reassuring to look at them anyway. If they were marbled carvings with gold and silver cloths sprawled around them, she would have found it to be too silly for her to take seriously.

Maegara looks at Alys Harroway, who is lighting a candle before the Maiden, and at Ser Addison, who is near the door, head hanging low to give them privacy. She sighs, closing her hands and returning to her prayers.

“Seven Who Are One, hallowed be thy name, shine my day with your light, protect the faithful from harm. Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone. Deliver to us the daily bread and forgive our sins, for we forgive those who have sinned to us. Amen.” She stands up from her kneeling position and sighs, cleaning her green skirts from the dust gathered around her knees and waist. Maegara walks to Alys and the two share a look.

“My father tells me that he has been receiving offers for my hand,” Alys whispers, beaming, “It seems the tale of our close friendship has left the island, and many want to use that to their advantage.”

Maegara nods, “I’m sure that is not the only reason. You are the eldest daughter of the Lord of Harrenhal, Alys, and because of that, you are a great lady.” She takes a new candle from the drawer, and uses the others at the feet of the Maiden to light it. As she watches the wick burn, Maegara thinks about her brother and his full pink lips, “You must think highly of yourself.”

Alys blushes and bites her lower lip, content with herself.

“Thank you, Meg,” she says, her face a pretty tone of pink. Maegara decides not to comment on the nickname, a new acquisition that had appeared over the past week, though she thinks it’s too common-sounding for herself. Let Alys have her moment in the light, “There is one from the Rowan heir, isn’t that incredible? Imagine living in the Reach.” She sounds so awed and fanciful, her eyes glazed as she certainly imagines a life with a man from House Rowan.

“I don’t think that’s incredible,” Maegara murmurs and her friend opens her mouth, her eyes as wide as saucers, “You deserve better than a lowly Rowan. You’re the closest friend of the future Queen. Who are they to think a Rowan is worthy of you? If it had been a Hightower, I would not be so cross, but now I think, I shall have to write to your father and tell him to ignore all who are undeserving of you.”

“Meg!” shrieks Alys, delighted. The others inside the sept look at them with wide eyes of reprobation, murmuring under their breaths about the unruly Princess and her friend, “You’re so mean!”

“No, I’m honest,” Maegara responds.

They link their arms and turn to walk out of the sept, their heads bowed together as they continue whispering. Alys can’t stop talking about all of the offers for her hand that her father has received, even though that, aged twelve, she would have to wait a long time before marrying any of them.

“Father says Lord Bracken sent an offering for their heir and then, only a fortnight later, House Blackwood did the same,” she giggles as they walk out of the sept, Ser Addison following them closely behind, “Isn’t this funny? Maybe I will have them duel for my hand.”

“Be careful with duels,” Maegara says, “Giving your favor to the one who ends up losing will be quite embarrassing later.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Alys says, pressing a hand to her forehead. Nothing can deter her mood, however, and she soon smiles again, “How are you always right?”

Maegara shrugs, “Practice.” She smiles, “But you mustn’t be distracted by these petty lords. There is still a grander match for you, I can see it.”

“You really think so?” Alys asks, smiling, “Oh, because my father said he is considering the Belmore proposal and I don’t think I could ever live in the Vale. What if the mountain clans take me away?”

“I will simply have to rescue you,” Maegara answers, “No one will take my friend away from me.”

Alys smiles again, beaming. She continues to talk about the other Lords that have reached out to her father, two from the Westerlands and another from the Reach. Maegara doesn’t let herself remember their names, or the lands from which they rule. They are small lords, and they shall never marry into the Harroway family, who now rule over Harrenhal and all its dominions, alongside their lordship over Lord Harroway’s Town and its fiefdom. Alys’ father now rules over a greater stretch of land and can call a much larger army than their overlords, the Tullys of Riverrun. For her, only a Lord Paramount will suffice.

They are whispering together about something unimportant when Aenys finds them, walking through the corridors of Dragonstone with his hands clasped behind his back. Much like the last time they encountered each other without warning, he is wearing his riding clothes. Dark brown boots and a green wool doublet, clasped in the middle with golden buttons.

“Brother,” Maegara says, stepping forward, “We must stop finding each other like this.”

“Must we?” he questions, frowning, “Well, I think this is a perfectly fine way to find one another, don’t you think? You with your lady, me with my…” He hesitates, certainly remembering the last time they met, and pink blossoms under his cheeks.

“Riding boots?” she supplies, trying hard not to laugh.

“Precisely,” Aenys murmurs, “How has the day been for you two?”

Alys and Maegara share a look, “Quite well, brother. We have just left the sept, where Alys was given her thanks to the Maiden for the offers her father has been receiving recently.”

“Really?” Aenys raises an eyebrow, “Well, congratulations, my lady.”

Alys blushes at the attention and does a semi-curtsy, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure your father will find you a suitable husband when the time comes, Lady Alys,” Aenys murmurs, “Is there any offer that he has been considering with more attention than the others?”

“Well,” Maegara starts, “Alys enjoys the idea of becoming the future Lady Rowan, but I have told her that only someone as high as one of the former kings could have her. She is the eldest daughter of the Lord of Harrenhal, the greatest castle in the land, is she not? Why should she dream small?”

“Please, Your Graces,” says Alys, “I would be happy with whatever husband my father chooses for me. I’m sure he only wants the best for me.”

“So we have come to an impasse, brother,” Maegara says, shaking her head, “Ser Addison sadly refuses to speak to us after that unfortunate incident with Tabitha Rosby and we can’t find anyone else that could meddle in our discussion.”

“What about Septa Sylvia?” offers Aenys. Maegara thinks he looks very adorable when he is confused as he is in that moment, frowning, with his mouth slightly open and the shine on his eyes glinting like a thousand stars, “Can’t she offer some womanly wisdom to you two?”

Alys and Maegara try not to laugh out loud, but it’s very hard, considering that Aenys has just said that Septa Sylvia possesses any sort of wisdom in regards to marriages. She is a Septa, for the Maiden’s sake, married only to the gods. What sort of wisdom could she possibly have to offer them?

“No, I’m afraid Septa Sylvia is not suitable, dear brother,” says Maegara, the laughter still ringing in her voice, “Please, help us. You are to be the King. Pretend this is some form of training for the crown, and settle this affair of your poor subjects.”

Aenys tilts his head slightly, giving the idea some thought, “Well, I would say it’s important to be ambitious, Lady Alys, but I would also say it’s important to keep yourself grounded, so as to not float to the skies with the size of your aspirations. Be hopeful towards the matches closer to your family’s dominions, as they have a bigger chance of actually happening. You are from the Riverlands, are you not?”

Alys nods just as Maegara says, “So you are telling her that she has a greater chance of being Lady of Riverrun than being Lady of Casterly Rock?”

“Sister,” Aenys says, imitating her, “I’m not saying anything.” He shakes his head, chuckling at them and their antics, “If it will make you happy, one of my closest friends is Ser Prentys, heir to House Tully. He served under the Lord Commander as a squire for many years, and then as my companion after his father abdicated the Handship and we grew quite close.” He shrugs, “He elected to return home once it was announced that the court would move to Dragonstone to help Lord Tully and take on the responsibilities of being heir to the Riverlands. Perhaps, if I’m feeling particularly charitable, I could put on the good word about my sister’s dear friend, Lady Alys, who is just three years younger than him and soon to come of age…”

Alys blushes, whispering about Lord Tully in awe as she places a hand to her mouth, shocked at these new events. Maegara pulls her brother into a tight hug and kisses his cheek almost on instinct, happy with his support. “Thank you, brother, thank you,” she says to his ear, “You’re the only one I can trust.”

Aenys is blushing too when she lets him go and he adjusts his clothing, which was rumpled after their embrace. He cleans his throat with a half-cough half-laugh, rubbing at his face and smiling at them, “If two are pleased, then I must get going. There is a horse in the stables waiting for me.”

“Oh, you’re going riding?” Maegara asks, placing her hands on Aenys’ chest, “Where are you going? May I come with you?”

“But you are not wearing your riding habit,” her brother protests, weakly.

“I will change!” she promises, “It will be over very quickly, I swear it. Please, I so want to leave this castle. I haven’t gone riding since Mother left. Please, Aenys, please!”

Her brother licks his chapped lower lip. She thinks about how she convinced him to fight their father against her marriage to Ser Daemon and to talk to him about her imprisonment in her chambers, months before. It’s not hard to convince Aenys to do as she wishes, since she mostly has to pester him, as well as be the last person to talk to him on the subject. Perhaps, he sees this just as his annoying little sister trying to annoy him into doing her bidding, but Maegara thinks it to be another sign of how they are perfect for each other.

“Father said you mustn’t leave the castle without his permission,” he tries again. She can already see that his resolve has weakened, however, and that his eyes are considering her proposal, “And he is not in the keep at the moment.”

“But, Aenys, he will not mind. Trust me on that,” she tries, touching his face with her hands as gently as possible, “How can I be unsafe in the custody of my brother, my shining knight, and my one true protector?” Perhaps, by acting as if the impositions placed on her were merely born of a fatherly worry for his only daughter’s safety, Aenys will be more inclined to agree.

Her brother, however, lowers his eyes, stepping forward as well. He looks at Alys, who stands awkwardly beside Maegara, and then at Ser Addison, a few steps behind them. He looks at her again, eyes moving from her face to her hands at his cheeks, before licking his lip once more.

“Very well,” he says, “But Ser Addison must come with us. And your lady as well.”

“Oh, brother!” she exclaims, wrapping her arms around his neck once more and hugging him tightly, “Oh, brother, thank you, thank you!”

It takes a moment before he hugs her back, hands circling her waist. Aenys lays his head on her shoulder, nose rubbing against her neck, and it tickles, raising goosebumps all over her body. Maegara suddenly wishes she had poured some perfume on her earlier, as a good scent was sure to have an effect on him before he leans back slightly. Her brother boldly presses a kiss to her cheek and Maegara shivers, surprised by his action.

When they separate, she can see that he is blushing. He seems to do that a lot.

“You may wait for us in the stables if you so wish,” she tells him, “Alys and I will be ready in no time.”

Aenys nods, “Of course,” he says, “I shall wait for you… For you both,” he adds quickly.

Maegara doesn’t miss the way he looks at her. Gently and loving, as a husband would. His eyes are a soft lilac, touched with blue, and they show all of his emotions, like a window to his soul.

“Of course,” she repeats, smiling a little just so he may see that she understood his  _ true  _ meaning.

She turns away from her brother, taking Alys’ hand in her own, and they walk away, trying hard not to scream in delight or erupt into giggles. It seems that her plan has finally been put in motion.

Maegara decides to escort Alys to her chambers, the official ones, where her clothes and riding habits are there awaiting her, before walking to her own rooms in the Sea Dragon Tower. Ser Addison remains behind her, his white armor clicking as he follows the princess.

The serving girl Maegara is greeted with in her chambers must be new, likely brought in by her father to attend to her. She doesn’t have to look at her long to see that she’s a dragonseed, likely descended from Maegara’s grandfather or perhaps his father before him. 

She’s a tiny thing, robust in the way smallfolk of Dragonstone seem to be, with thick dark brown curls half-tucked under a roughspun cap and deep eyes the color of black currants. She says nothing as she pulls out the riding habit for Maegara, unknotting the back of her dress brawny arms, her eyes occasionally meeting Maegara’s through the puzzle.

Her heart sinks the longer she looks as if her head is trying to work out some intricate puzzle. Was the girl’s face so... familiar before? She suddenly looked taller, much taller, and her hair could almost be silver in the sunlight. It seems as if her face is older than it truly is and that her eyes, a deep blue of the dragonseeds at Dragonstone, are instead the dark purple of the King and Queen. A quick glance away and the girl looks much the same as she did before, but the more Maegara focuses her eyes, the more she becomes aware of the truth.

The girl puts her finger to her lips as she continues to undress Maegara, a knowing look in her eyes. The door is closed, as they couldn’t have anyone entering the room when the princess is in such a nude state, but there could be anyone listening in, Ser Addison especially.

When the girl, or could she really be called that?, has finished helping her into her dress, the Princess hesitates on the door. Suddenly, she forgets about Aenys and the riding, she forgets about Alys and all who are waiting for her. She forgets because the more she looks at this girl, at this  _ servant _ , the more she sees the Queen, face hidden through some form of sorcery.

“Mother?” Maegara whispers, tears coming to her eyes.

The girl presses her lips together. “Later,” she says, in the rough voice of the Queen, “When you get back from riding.”

Maegara shakes her head, “But how can I go when you are here?”  _ When I’m afraid that you will not stay for my return? _

“The Crown Prince is waiting for you, Your Grace,” she says, “You mustn’t miss him.”

Maegara looks at her mother once more, before she cleans her cheeks of any remnants of her tears. The girl’s face is kind and loving, much like Aenys’ face had been earlier, but there is nothing to say that this gentleness will remain if Maegara doesn’t leave to meet her intended.

She meets with Alys Harroway in the corridor, her friend wearing a red riding dress and a hat that could cover her face from the burning sun. Maegara’s face has dried from her tears and she is sure that she looks no different than before, her expression neutral from any sign of the effect the woman that was in her room might have left on her. 

They interlock their arms together, whispering about what they might find in the stables of Dragonstone.

“He’s so gentle,” Alys gushes, “Did you see how he looked at you?”

“Yes,” answers Maegara, “He has kind eyes.”

“He likes you,” says Alys, “He’s going to make you his Queen.”

Maegara shrugs. She has to act passive about it, and not let anyone see how hard her heartbeats are at that possibility, “If you say so.”

They reach the stables in quick steps, whispering together about something unimportant, and find Aenys standing inside one of the stalls. Her brother is humming lowly to a song that Maegara doesn’t recognize and he is caressing the muzzle of a magnificent black mare. The animal is smaller than most warhorses in the stables, but it had a long neck and a beautifully shaped head. Her hair, straight and soft, seems to shine like an onyx with the light.

Aenys doesn’t notice their approach until they are standing right in front of him, so entranced is he in grooming the animal.

“She’s beautiful,” Maegara says, as Alys and Ser Addison step away to find a stableboy that could prepare their own horses.

Her brother looks at her, startled, and smiles, “Yes, she is.” Sunlight streams from the open door and his hair shines like beaten silver, “Come here.”

He offers her a hand as she opens the stall and steps inside, ignoring the smell and the dirt covering the hard ground underneath her feet. Maegara is a very practical woman. If she cared about the manner or state of her dress, she would have never survived her childhood, as her mother would surely have abandoned such a frivolous daughter to the dogs.

She takes Aenys’ hand as she steps inside and the mare shakes her head, breathing deeply at the new arrival. The crown prince, however, shushes her with a calming hand on her muscled neck, whispering sweet nothings. With his hand atop her own, Aenys guides her to do the same, and stroke the mare’s fine black hair.

Maegara suddenly notices that she is in front of her brother, her back to his chest, trapped between his two arms and the horse. Because of their similar height, his laps are on the side of her head, near her ear, and she can hear his steady breathing and feel the warm air blowing against her skin. She shivers when he speaks again, “Her name is Chance,” he whispers, “She’s a sand steed, given to my father as a gift from the Princess of Dorne. She can’t bear the weight of armor, but she is fast like a devil.” He smirks, “And one day, she is going to be mine.”

Aenys is fond of riding. She remembers that. He had been given coursers, palfreys, and destriers, though his favorite mount would always remain the dragon called Quicksilver.

“Many things will be yours someday,” Maegara whispers, stroking Chance’s hair, “This horse, this castle, this kingdom.” She turns slightly, trying to look at him in his eyes. Their mouths are so close that it would be all too easy to lean forward and kiss him. Too easy and too early, as well, “Even I shall belong to you one day.”

“Maegara…” he hesitates

“You are my brother,” she says, as a matter of fact, “We are meant to be together, we belong together.”

“Father says…” he starts, but stops suddenly, biting his lip as if he doesn’t trust himself to say those words.

“Father married two of his sisters,” Maegara responds, “And had children with them, even when the Seven Kingdoms begged him to take a new wife to continue the dynasty properly. Why should we be any different?” She steps back lightly, placing a hand on her chest as if she is offended, “You want to marry me, don’t you?”

Before he can answer, however, Ser Addison and Alys return, talking between each other. Two stableboys are following them, holding the reins to a different horse in each hand. Maegara looks at her brother one more time before she leaves the stall, dragging her skirts through the dirt as she walks out of the stables.

She sees Alys and Ser Addison climbing up on their rides without difficulties as if they have done this every day for their entire lives. Her cheeks flush as she accepts the help from the stableboy, sitting sidesaddle over the white and brown horse. Aenys, expert horseman that he is, doesn’t need any help to climb up as well, and she can’t meet his eye, no matter how much her heart races.

“Shall we go?” her brother says, sitting astride another horse, with dark brown hair covered in yellow spots.

“Yes,” Maegara answers, tapping the side of her horse with her feet, encouraging him to go forward.

They ride in silence for a long time, admiring the island of Dragonstone. Maegara feels the tension ebbing from her shoulders as she takes in her surroundings, her home, in all its glory. Dragonstone had been formed by the Dragonmont, a volcanic island that was much younger than the land of continental Westeros. It was damp and dreary, with the ever-hanging smell of sulfur and brimstone. 

She sees the dragon hatchlings flying overhead, fighting amongst each other for the bloody carcass of what was once a sheep, and Maegara smiles. Once, Septa Sylvia had taken her and her ladies to a local village, deciding that some charity would do them good. Maegara was in a wheelhouse with Alys and Alyssa Velaryon, observing what was happening in the outside through an open window. The hatchlings were playing that day as well, she remembers, and Maegara liked to watch them.

“Princess, may I ask something?” Alys said, sitting by her side.

“Yes, of course,” Maegara answered. She would never deny her friend.

“Why don’t you have a dragon?” she asked, dropping her head, “I’m sorry if my question offends Her Grace, but I’m afraid my curiosity has grown too large to bear.”

Maegara wasn’t offended, but she wouldn’t let Alys Harroway see that. As she mulled over her answer, trying to find words to explain the truth without letting her know too much and run to her father with her plans, Alyssa Velaryon chuckled, plumming her shoulders like an extravagant bird.

“Perhaps Her Grace is afraid of them,” teased Alyssa.

The Princess narrowed her eyes until they were dark purple slits on her face, and twisted her mouth to showcase her displeasure. She felt an intense need to slap the girl for her insolence and only Alys’ hand on her forearm stopped her.

Maegara scowled and replied, “There is only one who is worthy of me.”

She shakes her head, letting the memory slid away from her mind, and sighs. The hatchlings have been left behind, their screams and shrieks fly over the damp air around them. As they ride, they pass a couple of shepherds, leading their sheep away from the horses and calling out to them. With each passing second, more and more of the smallfolk come to see them, almost as if they are sprouting from the ground like spuds. The men wave their hats while the women fall into overdone curtsies, ignoring their animals.

“Seven blessings to Prince Aenys!”

“A long life and good health for Princess Maegara!”

“Praised be the heavenly Targaryens!”

She isn’t surprised by their comments. The smallfolk at Dragonstone has treated her family as near-god for over a century since they arrived on this island before the Doom. Because of their valyrian ancestry, many see the first night as a blessing bestowed on the most important of families, and lovingly take care of the dragonseeds her ancestors have left lying around. 

Her hands tighten around the reins of her horse and she looks at Aenys, who is riding right beside her. Her brother smiles at the smallfolk, nodding at their blessings, and they scream his name louder, shouting for their crown prince, their future king. Maegara tries to mimic his expression, nodding at those who look at her, and the simplest of gestures becomes exhausting to her. It’s so difficult to be kind and attentive to them, especially seeing as she doesn’t want to. This is why she never leaves the castle.

Slowly, as they continue to ride through the crowd, the voices go quieter and the people gradually lose their interest, returning to their meager and boring lives. Alys leads her horse towards Ser Addison’s and she asks him a question that Maegara can’t quite catch, but it causes him to turn his attention to her. With their distraction, the distance between them and the prince and princess grows, and Maegara suddenly realizes what her friend has done.

She can talk to Aenys privately.

Maegara turns to him and finds that he is looking at her as well. His eyes are calm as he looks at her, takes her in, with his lips set in a thin pink line. Aenys has his brows furrowed, though, almost as if he is confused by the state of things, and where they are at the moment. Maegara looks at her brother as the wind slaps against her, her hair flying, and she thinks about the first time she saw him.

Aenys had bowed to her, she remembers, even though he was the heir and her, the youngest sibling. That made her angry. He looked so weak then, so small, so frail. It seemed that only a gush of wind would be enough to take him away and she couldn’t help but wonder why her mother thought this  _ boy  _ was worthy of her. Why the gods made him male, and older, preventing her from succeeding to their father’s title. Everything seemed unfair then, moons before.

Now she says what she didn’t before. Her brother was handsome, with full pink lips and almond-shaped lilac eyes. He was thin, yes, but had a healthy form to it, something that said this was his natural state, rather than a symptom from an underlying condition. His hands seemed strong and gentle, and he walked with subtle confidence to his step. There was something attractive in him that made even Alys, her most loyal lady, giggle whenever he appeared, and it was not just the crown he would inherit in the future. He was taller than her and very charming, with an easiness around others that she would never have, no matter how much she tried to.

Maegara leans back on her saddle when she realizes that she wants to marry him. Not just because it would make her the future queen, but because of a deep and selfish longing inside of her, the remnants of a girl long suppressed. He is handsome and kind and she wants to be the lady lucky enough to be his bride, crown notwithstanding.

She knows no other man is half as kind, half as gentle, half as sweet. She can’t be with someone else. No one is like Aenys. Every other man will grind her beneath his spurs, treat her like property, or worse. Aenys is her best hope. Her only hope for happiness.

When he looks at her, she wonders. Does he see his annoying little sister or a perfect bride-in-waiting? One who would ably shoulder the responsibilities of being Queen? Does he see a child or someone who would gladly produce as many sons as he wanted? Does he know that she is willing to give everything for this? Does he know how…

“Aenys?” she calls out, softly, so Ser Addison will not hear it, “You never answered my question.”

He shakes his head, holding the reins of his horse so tightly that his knuckles turn white, “It’s not as easy as you think, Maegara.”

“I just don’t understand,” she says, “Why doesn’t Father want this? What is wrong with me, if I’m not considered to be your bride?” The cold air of the sea is biting on her cheeks and eyes. The tears come without her even forcing them out and a lump forms on her throat, heavy and disturbing, “Am I revolting? Am I ugly? Am I…”

He interrupts her before she can get another word out, “No, Maegara. No, don’t you ever think that.” Aenys looks so angry that she forgets that she once thought him a weakling, “You are beautiful.”

“Then why?” she asks, “Why am I to be given to Ser Daemon, while you wed Alyssa Velaryon?”

“What?” Aenys questions, completely shocked, “What are you talking about?”

Before she can answer, there is a rustling on the bushes. They are in a high area, with many low-lying plants around them and an old woman steps out from between them. She is dirty, and her clothes could only be described as brown rags. Her skin was saggy and stained, hanging over her body like pieces of parchment. Her hair, which was white and matted like string, was disheveled, sticking up around her face like a lion’s mane.

Ser Addison kicks his horse, riding faster to catch up with them, but he hasn’t arrived before the old woman points a finger to Maegara, “I see you, Princess! I have seen you!” One of her eyes is blind, while the other moves about its socket, like it wasn’t attached to anything, “I see a line of kings, I see a line of dragons, brought forth from the flames of your womb!”

Maegara looks at her brother, sensing surprise filling her features. Ser Addison screams something at the woman, telling her to back away, but she barely listens to him. Her heart races inside her chest, her hands sweaty and slippery on her reins. She can’t stop thinking that it couldn’t have been just a coincidence to have the woman appear just as she was approaching the subject with her brother, could it? Surely not.

“Let us return,” says Ser Addison, not leaving room for arguments. Aenys and Maegara can only nod, too shocked as they are.

She looks at the brother once more as they turn their horses, and finds that he is quizzically staring at her as well, almost as if he is looking at her for the first time. What could he be thinking, she wonders?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr: @raisamariannas


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